


Mercy

by Lissette Lackey (Muffintine)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action, DysFUNctional families, Eventual Explicit Content, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, Supernatural Abilities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffintine/pseuds/Lissette%20Lackey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amberlin is a country home to both normal humans called "norms," and those with enhanced abilities called "supers." All supers, and their unique abilities, are required by law to be cataloged in Amberlin's Supers Database the moment their ability emerges. Since it's implementation, the database has rendered countless masked vigilantes and supervillains obsolete. However, it didn't prevent several criminal families from rising to power. </p>
<p>Mercurius Doyle belongs to one such family. The infamous Doyles. He's been branded a villain and criminal from birth even though he desires to be anything but. Determined to live his own life, he attends Aspen University in an effort to do just that. Things get complicated when David--the charming, older bad boy--enters the picture. Not to mention he has to deal with a girl named Annie who's made it her life mission to disrupt what semblance of peace he has left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Mercurius Doyle."

Mercy winces as he squints towards the front of the lecture hall; he's automatically unimpressed with the anxious way his professor scans the mass sea of fresh faces. He sighs, clenches his hands, and clears his throat. "Here," he calls softly. The acoustics carry his answer to the forefront of the room and his professor—Langley, if he recalls correctly—holds his gaze momentarily before looking away, nervous sweat lining his brow.

He frowns. It's not that he expected much else but _still_ , it stings.

Irritation gnaws at the back of Mercy's mind but he studiously ignores it, instead opting to pull out an empty notepad and a mechanical pencil. It's not _his_ fault he was born into a family notorious for their super villainy. Honestly, all he wants to accomplish for the day is to sit through his first lecture like a normal, confused college freshman without half the lecture hall glaring at him. Even the girl, who had been previously sitting next to him, has scooted away without so much as a hint of subtlety.

Mercy swallows back the lump lodged in his throat and forces all of his attention on the whiteboard, ineffectively tuning out the half-whispered gossip surrounding him. _You're above this,_ he reminds himself, grip on his pencil tightening. _You aren't defined by the paths your family has chosen to walk._ Mercy lets out a shaky breath, glad that Professor Langley has finished roll call and begun the lecture, causing the rest of the students to dispel their rude blathering.

The lecture passes swiftly, Mercy's deft hand writing quick, concise notes, as his brain is left abuzz. Langley's a good professor, keeps almost all of the students engaged—including Mercy—and doesn't pile on too much for the first day. Something akin to happiness simmers in Mercy's chest as he stands to gather his things. As he turns to exit his row, however, that feeling dissipates the moment his spies who's waiting for him.

The girl looks normal by all accounts; petite, olive skinned with long, spiraling brown hair that tumbles elegantly over her shoulders. It's her eyes that tip him off, however. They're cold, calculating, and hold such thinly veiled contempt that it makes his skin _crawl_. The atmosphere she exudes reminds him of his brother and that alone is enough to make him feel physically ill.

Mercy schools his features. "Did you need something?" he asks indifferently, trying to hide the fact that his heart has begun to beat erratically.

She smiles, slow and shrewd. "I didn't know a Doyle would be attending this university. How _lucky_ ," she drawls, ending with an overly playful chuckle.

Mercy decides right then and there he doesn't like her. "Okay," he says blandly, relaxing his shoulders as he waves his hand in a bored, _go on_ motion.

She leans in towards him, the movement more predatory than seductive. "My name's Annie," she says. "I think we should be … _friends_." Annie raises her eyebrows as if to punctuate her crass meaning.

"No, thanks," Mercy replies evenly, pushing past her to exit his row. The _last_ thing he needs is for some supervillain groupie to hang around him on the misguided notion that he's an _in_ into the lackluster supervillain underground. He has nothing to do with his family's less than honorable misdeeds.

And he never _will_.

He doesn't spare a look over his shoulder to see if _Annie_ is following him, but he has the sinking feeling this isn't the last he'll see of her. People with that sort of interest aren't known for giving up, after all. Mercy grits his teeth; his head has already started to ache from the thought that there will, no doubt, be more _Annie's_ out there to corner him when he's least expecting it. He had wanted to attend University under an alias, but having to explain his reasons to his family was something he wouldn't have been able to do. Not then. Not now. Not _ever_.

They may be his family on paper and by blood, but they wouldn't think twice about harming him if they thought he was somehow _ashamed_ of them.

A chill runs down Mercy's spine at the thought of his family finding out, causing him to grip his books ever tighter, his breathing coming in shorter and shorter bursts. He stops walking abruptly to lean up against the nearest wall, his heart beating too fast as he fights off the cusps of panic. He shuts his eyes tightly, grounds his teeth, and thinks of snow; brilliantly white and freezing. The panic begins to subside then, but just barely.

Mercy doesn't open his eyes before taking a tentative step forward and pays the price immediately as he slams into the chest of someone else. The contact surprises him and makes him stumble a half-step to the right, his things falling from his arms on reflex. Mercy blinks, finds that in the scuffle the person he'd run into somehow managed to steady him with a hot, iron grip. "You alright?"

He takes a moment to regain his composure before he nods. "… I am," he replies. "Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going." His tone is subdued as he turns to take stock of the _someone_ he'd slammed into for the first time.

The man is tall, muscular in the way swimmers are, just shy of bulky. His hair is buzzed so short Mercy can't discern if it's brown or an off dirty blonde, but his eyes are what truly catch Mercy off guard. They're a soft brown, creased with worry and concern. It rattles him as _no one_ looks at him that way; not even his own family.

He smiles then, lips curving upwards crookedly, the motion sheepish. "Nah, I wasn't paying much attention either." He pauses for a beat, eyes dropping to the floor. "Ah, you dropped your things," he says, amusement alight in his tone. He relinquishes his grip on Mercy's arm to lean down and gather up his things. He all but shoves them back into Mercy's arms.

Mercy doesn't know want to make of it.

"What's your name, kid?" he asks casually as he crosses his arms and leans up against the corner Mercy had hastily stepped out from behind.

Mercy frowns, suspicious and pensive. "Aren't you supposed to introduce yourself first?" he counters, which surprises a laugh out of the man.

"Right, right. Sorry." He holds out his hand. "David," he says simply, grinning like only a fool ought to.

It makes Mercy uncomfortable, but he takes David's hand nonetheless. "Mercy."

"Mercy?" David repeats with a lighthearted laugh. "What kind of name is that?"

Mercy grits his teeth. "It's a nickname."

But David isn't paying him any mind—his attention has already been stolen by someone waving obnoxiously at him from outside the building's large entryway windows. "Sorry, kid, gotta run!" And just like that, David's bounding off. Once he exits the building, Mercy watches as he throws an arm around a shorter man, no doubt harassing him good naturedly.

Mercy's chest constricts unpleasantly but he looks away before the envy he feels can completely wrap its barbed tendrils around his heart.

* * *

Mercy's shoulder aches by the time he makes it back to his dorm. He unlocks the door with a day-long sort of apathy, letting his bag slide to the floor the moment he crosses the threshold into his shared living space. He spots Bentley almost immediately, propped up on his bed, glasses pushed back into the thick, matted curls of his auburn hair. "Bentley," he greets with a sigh as he meanders across the room to collapse on his bed.

Bentley grimaces, sets down whatever book he was just engrossed in, and side eyes Mercy with irritation. "I told you to call me Buzz."

"Buzz is a ridiculous name," Mercy counters, running a hand tiredly through his hair as he works off his tennis shoes.

Bentley snorts, unperturbed. "So is Mercy."

Mercy's lips twitch tetchily but he doesn't open his mouth to argue. As he tosses his soiled socks into his empty hamper, he fixes a contemplative gaze on Bentley. He's since returned his attention to his book, seemingly uncaring of Mercy's presence. They aren't friends, per se, but Bentley seems to tolerate his presence in stride and doesn't appear to be afraid of him at all. It's a small thing to take pleasure in, but Mercy finds himself biting back a smile.

His admittance to Aspen University was never a secret to society at large or, more importantly, to the government. He knows the Board of Supers is aware of his presence at the university and he wouldn't put it past Eric Holloway, the distinguished head of the BOS, to have arranged for Bentley to be his roommate. The likelihood that his roommate is spying on him should be worrying, but having a watchdog for a roommate is better than having someone who fears him for reasons beyond his control.

Mercy cracks his neck, dispels those unpleasant thoughts, and bends down to retrieve a warm can of cola from one of the six packs he's hidden under his bed. He holds it in his hand for a moment, lets the familiar tingle radiate down his arm, shivering outwards until the can of cola is covered in a thin sheet of ice, chilling the beverage perfectly.

Bentley's watching him indiscreetly from the corner of his eye. Mercy looks at him lazily. "Want one?"

Obviously embarrassed he's been caught staring, Bentley makes a complicated face before begrudgingly nodding his head. "Sure, why not."

Mercy brushes off the ice and lobs the can at Bentley's head. He catches it, but not before grappling wildly for purchase. Mercy half-smiles, chuckles quietly to himself, and fetches his own cola, chilling it the same way before popping the tab. He takes a long, greedy gulp and then lets out a soft, satisfied sigh.

Bentley's still staring at him.

"What?" Mercy asks mildly.

"Frost manipulation, huh," Bentley begins conversationally, hiding his curiosity horrendously.

Mercy lifts a surprised brow. "Yes. You didn't know? It's a matter of public record." All supers are, after all, required by law to register with the government when their ability first presents itself. Not doing so is a direct violation of the law and carries a steep price. It's perhaps the _only_ law his family hasn't broken.

"Yeah, well, not all of us look up our roommates in the national database," Bentley replies, miffed.

Mercy rolls his eyes. "Why bother with the database? My family is notorious enough, surely." He immediately regrets the bitterness that seeps into his words; he's slipping up, letting his mask of indifference crack.

"Uh." Bentley gapes at him like a suffocating fish out of water.

"Quit gaping and close your mouth, you look ridiculous," Mercy tells him crankily.

Bentley does just that, but he's smiling now. "You're not what I was expecting."

"I thought you don't look up your roommates in the national database?" Mercy says, smiling slightly despite himself.

Bentley flushes, sputters with indignity, and very nearly knocks his cola off his nightstand. "Uh—Um—"

"You can stop your sputtering," he says plaintively, tossing his own empty can into a nearby trashcan. "It's natural to be curious." He pauses. "I looked you up."

"Um, what?"

"I was wondering why our dorm was suspiciously lacking summertime bugs. It seems being able to manipulate insectoids has its advantages."

Bentley rubs nervously at the back of his neck, now an impressive shade of red. "Yeah, well." He clears his throat, all of a sudden looking shy. "It doesn't bother you?"

Mercy frowns. "Bother me?"

"That I can, you know, control bugs."

"Should it?"

"Ah, well, it creeps some people out, I guess."

Mercy levels an impassive gaze on Bentley. "Does it bother you that I'm a Doyle?"

It's Bentley's turn to frown. "Not especially?"

That warms Mercy's heart unexpectedly. "Then there's your answer."

Bentley looks thoughtful, but before he can further the conversation, Mercy rolls over on his bed, turning his back to him. "I'm taking a nap," he says through a yawn. "Good night, Bentley."

There's a beat of silence before Bentley lets out an aggravated sigh. "I _told_ you to call me Buzz, damn it."

* * *

The first week on campus passes with a blur, though Mercy does find comfort in the fact his family hasn't felt the need to contact him yet. It's oddly satisfying being away from them after nearly nineteen years of constant exposure.

Mostly, Mercy's thankful Cerberus hasn't made an appearance yet. His gut lurches at the thought of his brother's cruel smiles and empty eyes. His classmates may be wary of him now, but should his brother show up, he'd give them _true_ reason to show fear. Mercy grimaces at the open book before him and plops forward, letting his head thunk against the smooth pages, wishing those thoughts away.

He stays like that for a while, realizing for the first time how exhausted he is. It's near 2AM and the library is all but a ghost town. Which is to be expected; it's Saturday, after all. Had he any friends, he'd probably be out partying somewhere instead of stuck in the library with only a history book to keep him company. That particular thought makes Mercy frown against its pages.

His mind is a traitorous self-pitying _bastard_.

 _I have Bentley_ , he thinks morosely. Though, that isn't entirely true. They may have bonded that first night, but his roommate has been suspiciously absent for the rest of the week. He leaves early and returns after Mercy has already turned in for the night. They've hardly had a decent conversation all week. _I can't even get my_ watchdog _to speak to me_.

Mercy groans into his book just as he hears approaching footsteps.

"Alright, champ, you gotta—," someone starts to say, but they cut themselves off to laugh abruptly, the sound of it surprised and delighted.

Mercy jolts upright, embarrassed. He shifts his body to narrow his eyes and glare at whoever is laughing so obnoxiously at him. He pauses, however, when he's sees it's the guy he'd run into the first day of classes.

David grins, recognition clear on his face. "You're the kid with the funny name."

"Did you mean for that to be a compliment?" Mercy returns scathingly, mood soured.

"Hm," David hums, sauntering closer to Mercy's table. "I certainly didn't mean for it to be an insult." He's giving Mercy an appraising look that makes him feel suddenly shy and on display all at once, which is _ridiculous_.

Mercy sends David a withering glare before shuffling his things together.

"Shouldn't you be out partying?" David asks, tone light and teasing.

"I don't drink," Mercy snaps, eyebrows twitching with annoyance as he stands abruptly and shifts on his heel to storm past David.

Surprisingly, David reaches out to stop him, warm hand pressing in hotly against his chest. "Easy there, kid, I was just teasing…" he says, trailing off as his gaze catches Mercy's. There's something serious brewing in David's eyes that causes Mercy to swallow thickly. "I don't drink, either," he admits finally, shooting him a crooked smile that Mercy is hard pressed to deny is attractive.

They stay standing like that for a moment, David's hand resting idly on Mercy's chest, tension so thick it could be cut with a knife.

" _David, is the third floor clear yet? Some of us would like to go the fuck home tonight,"_ the radio at David's hip crackles, heavy with static.

Something akin to irritation and disappointment flicker across David's face briefly. He uses the hand currently not pressed up against Mercy's chest to fetch the radio from his hip. "I'm walking the last guy out, don't go getting your panties in a twist, Spencer."

"Spencer" replies immediately. _"You're not getting paid to flirt, you fuckwit."_

David's lips twitch. "That one's got a mouth on him, you'll have to forgive him," he tells Mercy jokingly.

Mercy takes a step backwards, causing David's hand to slip from his chest. "I can walk myself out," he says quietly.

David's having none of that. "No need to be shy," he teases lightly, stepping around Mercy to snag his backpack off the tabletop. He starts walking off immediately, forcing Mercy to follow after him with loud, harried steps.

"Do you normally steal people's things and force them to walk with you?" he questions, tone biting.

"Nope, you're just a special case," David sing-songs, grinning sideways at Mercy.

Mercy turns away from him, mind a swarm with suspicions. First of all: why is David being even remotely nice to him? He'd been quite the hot topic on campus and, by now, everyone knows to avoid him. He glances at David to find he's staring back, face relaxed and amused. "What?" Mercy snaps.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" David asks unexpectedly as he pushes the exit to the library open, stepping out into the humid night air, Mercy two steps behind him.

"That's quite an intrusive question," Mercy bites back, holding out his hand with clear intent. "This is the part where you hand me my backpack, so I can go home."

David smirks. "Hm, not just yet."

"What are you, a child?" Mercy asks irritably. "Or just deaf? Give me. My backpack."

"Neither, actually," David says, tone mischievous. "Have lunch with me tomorrow."

Mercy's response is immediate. "No."

David has the gall to look marginally surprised. He recovers swiftly, however. "I see. Came on too strong, huh," he says, though it appears he's talking more to himself than to Mercy.

Mercy sighs, frustrated. "You phrased it as a demand," he informs him. "Most people _ask_."

David appears by all accounts thoroughly amused by Mercy's antics. "Then, would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?"

"No," Mercy replies, rejecting him for the second time without so much as a flinch. With that said, he snatches his backpack out of David's grip and turns to stalk off.

"Well damn," he hears David murmur behind him. "See you around then, Mercy," he calls after him.

Mercy ignores him in favor of heading towards his dorm.


	2. Chapter 2

Mercy's pencil is mid-stroke when Annie drops unceremoniously into the chair beside him. He succeeds in ignoring her for all of two minutes before she reaches towards him and cards her hand through his messy mop of black hair. "What shampoo do you use?" she asks innocently, making Mercy's irritation rise to alarming levels.

"Stop touching me," he demands, jerking his head back to glare contemptuously at her.

Annie smirks. "Aw, but you're just so _adorable_ I can't help myself," she coos, pulling back to rest her chin on her propped up elbow. She looks pretty as always, eyes carefully accented with blacks and grays. Her gaze is as vile as ever, reminding Mercy of exactly why he should be wary of her.

He decides not to respond and instead continues copying the sections they'll be quizzed over during the next lecture.

"Come now Mercurius," she says playfully, "can't you see I only wantG to be your friend?" Her voice carries a sugary sweet overtone that he's come to abhor in the short week he's known her.

"Don't call me that," he snaps at her, accidentally breaking off the head of his pencil. He curses softly under his breath as he discards the ruined pencil, snatches up another of his assorted writing utensils, and crankily resumes taking pre-lecture notes.

"Then what should I call you?" Annie asks, a hint of true curiosity threaded throughout her words.

Mercy continues writing. "Mercy," he answers sharply.

Annie laughs in outright cruel amusement. "Mercy?" she repeats skeptically. "Don't you think that puts damper on your bad boy image?" She turns away from him then to begin scrawling her own brand of notes in her obnoxiously pink notepad. Mercy glances at her, silently envious of her beautiful script and swift hand.

"All the better," he replies boredly. "I never intended to be thought of that way."

"Oh _really_ ," Annie hums, setting her pen aside to look towards Mercy again. "And in what way did you intend to be thought of?"

"None of your business," he tells her mildly.

"I'll find out your secret eventually," she promises, pausing for effect, " _Mercy_."

Mercy tries to ignore the way she looks at him as if she's founds something particularly interesting to play with but he fails abysmally. His stomach churns nervously, tightening uncomfortably. Annie's a type he's very familiar with; she's seeking a way to get on his family's good side. After all, what better a way to do whatever misdeeds she desires than with the protection of a family notorious for being above the law? It's only a matter of time before she discovers he's not at all like his family. That frightens him as it could just as well cause her disinterest as it could lead to his manipulation.

He knows he's weak, unable to break free from the bounds created by his family. He's aware what others expect from him; cruelty, cunning, and manipulation. It's _suffocating_. He'd thought that by coming here, by attending this university, perhaps...

But it seems reality is far more harsh a mistress than he originally thought.

"If you would please turn to page 245 in your history textbooks," Langley drones, drawing Mercy from his spiraling thoughts. He obliges, moving his thoughts on from pointless depressing things to the history of Amberlin and the six divisions it's comprised of.

The lecture passes without incident, Mercy listening avidly, soaking up as much information as his brain will allow. However, Langley dismisses them five minutes early and Annie latches onto Mercy like a leech. She stands the moment he does, tucks her things under her arm, and hooks his with her other.

"Not so fast," she breathes into his ear, ruffling his hair with false affection. "I have some business with you."

"Well," Mercy grounds out, "I don't have any business with you." He twists to try and free himself from her hold but he finds— _annoyingly_ —that she is deceptively strong.

Mercy scowls petulantly.

"Now, now," Annie purrs, leading him out of the lecture hall, "none of that."

Giving in momentarily, Mercy relaxes into Annie's grip and allows her to drag him out into the blistering heat. He squints against the bright summer light and turns to glare halfheartedly at his would-be captor. "What do you want?"

"Oh," she sing-songs, "all manner of things. Most of which aren't important at the moment." She smiles at him then, the quirk of her lips sweet and telling. "You'll find out about those too though, all in good time."

"Quit beating around the bush," he snaps at her. "I have another lecture to get to."

"You're a pushy little thing, aren't you?" she muses, pulling him in closer to her. She's shorter than him, but not by much. Her ridiculously high heels, however, have given her about an inch on him. "I like that about you, you know," she tells him. "You're quite different from what I imagined, being Cerberus' younger brother and all. Though, how does one live up to a brother of that caliber? Must have been tough." She nods along sympathetically, caressing his wrist in some bastardization of affection.

"Do you have a point?" he asks her icily, contemplating how much attention he'd garner if he froze the arm she currently has intertwined with his into solid ice.

"Patience, Mercy," she tuts at him. "Don't you know it's a virtue?"

Mercy resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"I assume you're close with your brother, yes?" Annie's smiling sweetly, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Define close," he drawls, steadily ignoring the unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

Annie stops suddenly to twist by her heel and slam Mercy up against one of the many brick walls that line the university courtyard. She pushes her right leg up in between Mercy's and leans in close, only a hair's breadth away. "That clear enough for you?" she questions, bringing her free hand up to stroke his cheek gingerly.

Mercy laughs humorlessly. "Is this supposed to scare me?" he asks her, truly curious. Surely if she's aware of who his brother is, she has no hope of terrifying him on the levels his brother has. What she's doing now is child's play in comparison to Cerberus' special brand of cruelty.

Annie gasps in mock horror. "I would never dare dream of scaring you." She smiles monstrously, all the faux sweetness from earlier slipping cleanly from her face. "After all, you're my favorite person's precious little brother." She drags a hand down Mercy's chest. "I just wanted to ask you a small favor, that's all."

"Favor?" he inquires warily.

Annie pulls back then, fixes Mercy's collar, and smiles as her facade slots back into place. "I merely wish to meet your brother."

Mercy stiffens. "He doesn't plan to visit me on campus."

"No?" Annie huffs as she pats him companionably on the shoulder. "Well, you're just going to have to change that, aren't you?"

"Annie—," he protests.

"Do it or there will be ... _consequences_." She gives him a meaningful look before continuing, "But would you look at the time! I've got to run handsome, so I'll leave the rest of my threats to your imagination. Think about what I said, won't you?" She steps away, releases him from her hold, and blows a kiss at him before sauntering off as if she hadn't just manhandled him in the middle of the quad.

Mercy straightens out his clothes, annoyed. Like hell he's going to voluntarily invite his brother to come and torment him. Annie's going to have to up her antics if she wants him to stoop to that level of idiocy. It worries him, how persistent she is, but he figures he can handle her for the time being. He wonders briefly if she's a super, though he knows better than to ask. He makes note to get her full name the next time she corners him. A quick database search is all he'll need to find out more about her and how to possibly manage her.

He sighs, frowns, glances at the courtyard clock, and decides he has enough time to grab a cup of coffee before his next lecture. If anything, the caffeine will help with the budding headache that's starting to take root in the back of his mind. He finds the one campus coffee shop with ease, steadily ignores all the eyes on him, and gets in line. He grimaces as he takes in the many sugary concoctions he has to choose from.

As he steps up to the counter, the cashier gawks at him. "Um, uh, w-what can I get for you?" she asks timidly, wringing her hands in the front of her navy blue apron. She's obviously nervous.

He eyes her impassively, not having the energy to deal with her irrational fear of him. "I'll have a medium cappuccino," he tells her gently.

She nods eagerly. "Um. That'll be two bronze marks, uh, s-sir." She swallows thickly. "Name for the order?"

"Mercy," he says through a sigh, pushing two bronze marks forward on the counter top before dropping an additional silver mark into the tip jar as he steps to the side. The cashier seems genuinely surprised, but she smiles tentatively at him and he returns the gesture, causing her cheeks to redden. He's aware he's not unattractive, but it always surprises him when he inspires that sort of reaction in women.

He knows that his slender frame is desirable, that his hair's a peculiar shade of charcoal—grays and blacks mixed together—that people often find fascinating. It isn't unusual for people to liken his eyes to the frost he's able to manipulate, soft and so light a blue they almost appear clear. He's had his share of bedmates—mostly men, though there was that particularly embarrassing run in with one of the female maids that he, under no circumstances, wants to ever recall again. Just thinking about the incident makes Mercy's face grow hot with mortification.

Thankfully, he's saved from his own thoughts when the barista calls out his name and slides his cappuccino across the slick counter top. He snags it easily and turns to make his exit. His phone begins to vibrate suddenly in his front pocket and he fumbles slightly, awkwardly fishing it from his pants.

His coffee slips from his hand in shock when he reads the name flashing across the screen of his phone.

_**CERBERUS DOYLE**_ , it mocks him, time seeming to slow to a chilling stand-still.

"Woah there," someone says, startling Mercy so severely he very nearly drops his buzzing phone as well. He looks to his right, David's delighted face filling his line of vision immediately, a steaming cup of coffee clutched triumphantly in his hand. "Making a habit of dropping things when I'm around, huh?" he asks charmingly, flashing a lazy smile that makes Mercy's heart lurch.

Mercy hurriedly stuffs his phone into his pocket, presence of mind shaken and off balance. He clears his throat. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were following me," he replies softly, expression odd as he gazes at David. He's both thankful for his sudden appearance and annoyed by it.

David smirks. "And if I said I was?"

That throws Mercy. "What?"

"If I said I was following you, what would you do?" It's said playfully, David's eyes softening as he looks down at Mercy, lips tugging upwards into a relaxed and warm smile.

Mercy narrows his eyes. "I'd call you a liar."

David mocks being hurt, slapping his free hand over his heart. "You wound me," he bemoans pitifully, sloshing Mercy's coffee around as he stumbles back a few paces in absurd demonstration.

"Give me my coffee back before you spill it all over the ground," Mercy grumbles, ignoring David's theatrics.

"Not even a thank you from my coffee damsel in distress? You leave me sorely disappointed, princess," David says with a wide smirk and laughing eyes.

"Keep talking like that and you'll be lucky to not get a fist to the face," Mercy replies plaintively, completely unimpressed by David's easy ribbing.

David pauses, pretends to be mulling something over, and then says, "Fine. Have dinner with me and I'll consider my coffee saving services paid in full."

"That's blackmail," Mercy informs him.

" _Tasty_ blackmail," David corrects with a self-satisfied grin.

Mercy stares at David, completely at a loss for why he has been so insistent on talking with him. Where others have been hesitant, angry, or fearful, David has shown no signs of wariness. It makes Mercy feel a sense of unease and dread. "Why do you keep tricking me into lengthy conversations?" he asks bluntly, forcibly taking his coffee from David's grasp. He finds, funnily enough, it's still hot, not at all lukewarm like he thought it'd be by now.

"Because I find you charming," David returns, tone light and easy. His words ring true, oddly enough.

Mercy frowns. "You hardly know me well enough to find me charming."

"Which is why you should have dinner with me," David states, looking infuriatingly smug. "So that I can get to know you well enough."

"Clever," he retorts, completely unable to stop the half-smile that steals away his lips.

"You smiled," David observes, smiling himself. "Does that mean you're saying yes?"

"No," Mercy refuses, "it doesn't."

David sighs and runs a hand through his buzzed short hair, smile rueful. "Good thing I have work tonight, then."

That confuses Mercy momentarily. "Then why did you bother asking?"

"Because I knew you'd say no," he teases. Mercy can't help but feel guilty about the twinge of disappointment etched into David's demeanor, smothered by false cheer.

Not sure what to say next, Mercy shuffles awkwardly. "I have to get to my next lecture."

David pats him on the shoulder. "Come see me at the library if you're feeling lonely."

He walks off after that, hands shoved into the front of his jean pockets. Mercy watches him go with an odd sort of ache blooming in his chest.

* * *

Mercy has a particular disdain for science courses. It's not that he doesn't like science or that he doesn't have a healthy respect for it, it just doesn't interest him. He exhales, rubbing his temples distractedly as he ambles back towards his dorm, backpack hitched up on his right shoulder. He yawns as he swipes the keycard to his dorm building. He waits until the red light switches to green before pushing open the door. As he steps inside, a cool wash of air assaults him, making him smile pleasantly. Movement catches his eye and he's surprised to see Bentley arguing with another man in the lounge.

Bentley blinks when he spots Mercy, face going from irritation to worry. "Uh," he manages in greeting.

Mercy nods. "Bentley," he returns smoothly.

"Are you just going to gape at him like a fucking idiot or are you going to introduce us?" the man Bentley had previously been arguing with asks, rudely inserting himself into the conversation.

Mercy shifts his eyes to get a good look at the man. He's taller than both Bentley and he, the left side of his head cleanly shaven, leaving the rest of his dusty blonde hair to hang over the right side. He has an assortment of piercing—though, truthfully, Mercy stops counting after he gets to the snake bites—and his eyes are incredibly narrow, giving the impression he's always mistaken for angry. What's truly striking, however, are the identical dragon tattoos that spiral down both of his arms, descending from yellows, oranges, and reds to pinks, purples and blues.

"Uh, um, this is ... Spencer," Bentley introduces lamely.

Spencer shoots him a dirty look. "What the fuck kind of introduction is that?" he practically yells at Bentley, his voice is so loud. He sighs irritably and takes a step towards Mercy, extending his hand. "Spencer Ross," he says. "Now who the fuck are you and how do you know Buzz?"

Bentley looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. "Spencer, seriously."

"Shut up, you twerp," Spencer snaps back at him.

Mercy takes Spencer's hand in his, ignores the way Bentley's looks like he's going to faint, and shakes it. "Mercy," he says simply. "I'm Bentley's roommate."

Spencer's grip tightens immediately, face darkening considerably. " _You're_ Mercurius Doyle?" he sneers, spitting out Mercy's name like a curse.

"Yes," Mercy replies calmly, despite his fraying nerves. It appears Spencer's going to be one of the angry ones but it's nothing Mercy hasn't handled before. He schools his features into that of indifference before saying, "You can let go of my hand now."

Bentley looks moments away from blanching.

Spencer pulls his lips back into a nasty snarl as he leans forward. "If you fuck with Buzz in any way, I'll flay you alive, you fucking shit."

"I've no intention of doing anything to Bentley," he tells Spencer. "He's my roommate, that's all."

Something in Spencer snaps as anger clouds his face. He lurches forward suddenly to push Mercy back against the nearest wall, twisting his wrist up against his chest painfully. "Don't fuck with me," he spits. "I don't care who your mommy and daddy are, I'm not afraid of you."

"Spencer," Bentley grounds out, looking a nervous wreck. "What are you _doing?_ "

"Stay out of this, Buzz," Spencer warns darkly.

"Let Mercy go," Bentley orders softly, going from nervous to weary. "Seriously, he hasn't done anything. Damn it, Spencer—why do always have to resort to violence even when the situation doesn't warrant it?"

Spencer glares murderously at Mercy before releasing him. Mercy winces and rubs his wrist absently as he steps away from him. He ignores Spencer completely as he turns to address Bentley. "Good night, Bentley," he says stiffly, words cold and formal.

Bentley looks pained. "Mercy—"

But Mercy has already turned away, legs carrying him swiftly up the stairs to the second floor where he fumbles with the lock before slipping inside. His hands are shaking, he notes absently, dropping his backpack to the floor. He leans against the door and breathes in deeply, attempting to calm his jumping heart. He's so tired of this. He craves companionship, he knows. Someone to talk to, someone who will _listen_ , someone who will see _him_.

His thoughts go maddeningly to David.

But no, he can't hope.

Hoping always makes it worse.

As Mercy looks over at Bentley's side of the room, all of his things thrown about haphazardly, he decides he can't stay here, not right now. With an exhausted exhale, Mercy gives in, leans down to pick up his backpack and turns to leave the dorm.

He lets his legs guide him to the library.


	3. Chapter 3

The walk across campus isn't an exceptionally long one. Even though Aspen University—named so because it was built in the heart of Amberlin's capital, Aspen—is one of the more well-known universities in the country, efforts to expand the grounds have always been denied by the city council. Division One, the oldest of the six military states that make up Amberlin, has always been strictly against change, preferring to keep things as they are.

It's that sort of thinking, Mercy supposes, that he has to thank for the beautiful brick buildings that litter the campus grounds. During the day, the sun bathes the red, orange and beige bricks with sunlight, bringing about the illusion of stepping back in time. Even the majority of walkways are still made of the original cobblestone. Mercy's sure he isn't the only student who finds the grounds aesthetically pleasing.

Even now, as Mercy walks in the dark, the soft glow of the campus lights keeping him company, he has a sense belonging to another era. It proves to calm him, if just marginally.

As he draws closer to Northam Library, his worries begin to poison his thoughts once again.

It's silly, he knows, to be upset over words he's heard before said by a man he'd only just met. It's even more pointless to be upset over Bentley's weak defense of him. The fact of the matter is, it hardly makes sense for Bentley to defend him as one would a friend. They aren't friends, not really. Mercy feels abruptly weary, feet sliding against the smooth tile flooring of the library's entrance as he enters the building, unsure. He shouldn't be here. David was joking. So what if he's feeling lonely? He shouldn't…

 _He doesn't know who you are,_ his subconscious taunts traitorously. _That's why he's nice, because he isn't aware you're poisoned, just like your bastard of a brother._ Bile rises up in Mercy's throat as his feet cease to move forward, frozen while what remains of his self-worth withers away. He wonders, briefly, if it would be easier to fill everyone's expectation of who he should be; to give in and become the right bastard they so obviously expect.

But, no. He can't do that.

Mercy's a coward in every sense of the word; just brave enough to try half-assedly to be who wants, but still too cowardly to stand up against his family; to stand up against every evil they represent. It's a never ending cycle of misery for which his unwillingness to fight against is to blame.

He wishes suddenly, _fiercely_ , that he was stronger.

"Are you gonna stand there all night looking hopelessly lost or are you gonna ask me for help?"

Mercy rears back, startled to find he's wandered over near the circulation desk.

A stocky woman stands behind the counter. She's taller than him by a few inches, skin dark and strikingly beautiful against her wide, taupe eyes; her hair is pushed back messily with an array of black bobby pins, giving him the impression that she has a haphazard personality. She cocks an eyebrow at him, half-smiling and expectant.

Her name tag reads Calister.

"Ah, no," Mercy begins with a stumble, "I wasn't paying attention to where I was headed. Sorry."

Calister chuckles warmly. "Head stuck in the clouds?"

Mercy frowns, thoughtful. "Something like that."

"Hm," Calister hums as she regards him. She pauses, frowns briefly, and then asks, "This might be rude of me to ask, but have we met before?"

Mercy goes perfectly still, gut heavy with dread. He entertains the idea of lying to her, but dismisses the thought almost wistfully. "Perhaps not directly," he tells her distractedly, "but I wouldn't be surprised if you've heard of me." There's nothing arrogant about the way he says it, just bare resignation.

"I'm not one for gossip, honey," she tells him frankly, smile disarmingly warm. "So you're just gonna have to come out and say it." She's pressing him onward, he realizes suddenly. Perhaps a bit bluntly, but her words are not unkind.

"Mercurius Doyle," he introduces himself softly. "But I prefer to be called Mercy."

Calister's smile doesn't falter. "I see," she says, leaning back to tut her tongue at him. "Well, if you really were the hellion the campus seems to think you are, I highly doubt you'd go around calling yourself Mercy, of all things. Unless you're trying to be ironic." She laughs loudly. "Though that, I doubt."

Mercy can't help it, he smiles. "I thought you said you weren't one for gossiping."

Calister snorts. "Oh, I'm not. But a girl's got ears and some people talk entirely too loud."

"I see," Mercy muses aloud, the painful pressure surrounding his heart easing off gently. After a brief pause, he opens his mouth to ask where David is, but abruptly stops himself.

"Out with it, honey, I don't got all night."

Mercy laughs despite himself. However, he still hesitates before asking, "Is David on shift tonight?"

By all accounts, Calister seems genuinely surprised. "David?" she repeats, incredulous. " _David_ -David?"

Mercy eyes her oddly. "Does more than one David work here?"

"No, no, sorry, I just...," Calister trails off, frowning slightly. "It's not important, forget I said anything. David _is_ working tonight. Want me to call him on the radio for you? He's working up in stacks, so he could be shelving books anywhere in the library."

He swallows. "No, ah ... I'll find him myself. Don't worry about it. Thank you, Calister."

"So polite," she teases.

He walks off with a curt wave, a bit ashamed of himself for _actually_ asking if David was working. He knows, of course, seeing David is the whole reason he's come to the library, but it still throws him that he _wants_ to see him. David's just a guy he'd met by chance a couple of times. An infuriatingly charming guy, sure—and _handsome_ , his brain supplies happily—but that's it. They aren't friends. They aren't dating. They aren't even _fucking_. They just ... are.

It's worrisome.

He's already finding himself ridiculously attached, which amounts to only one outcome... an outcome where he will be, undoubtedly, irrevocably hurt. He doesn't know if David is aware of who he is. He could ask easily enough, find out, but what if he doesn't know? Will David hate him? Will he stop talking to him? It hurts now, just thinking about it. He doesn't want to know what it will feel like when it happens for real. But if there's one thing Mercy is certain of, it's that whatever he and David have going on... be it friendship or romance, it won't last.

As Mercy steps out onto the second level, he finds it quiet, students scattered about, books open, laptops up, and earbuds in. It's familiar, in a calming sort of way. He wanders around for a while, peeking around shelves and spending a small amount of time in the art history section. Eventually, he makes his way to the third level, footfalls loud as he trots up the stairway. He runs into a stressed looking girl as he brushes past her to slip into the marine biology section. He scans the spines of the textbooks lethargically before growing bored.

 _This is stupid_ , he thinks hotly. _What am I even doing?_ Frowning, Mercy turns to leave with a sigh, shoulders slumped.

The squeak of wheels and the cadence of a familiar voice stop him. "Calister's quite the meddler, you know," David says from behind him, undeniably amused.

Mercy turns slowly, trying for detached but missing by a mile. "Is she?" His eyes gloss over the titles in front of him hastily before he grabs the thickest volume near him with desperate swiftness. "I'm only here to check out a book," he denies awkwardly, hating that his reddening cheeks have likely given him away.

"I wasn't aware you were taking advance courses in marine biology," David says, snagging a book off his cart. He walks past Mercy, eyes scanning the call numbers before stopping halfway down the aisle to slip the book into its appropriate place. He then angles his body to stare back at Mercy, appearing far too pleased.

"I wasn't aware you knew my schedule so intimately," Mercy shoots back, grip on _Anatomy of Seahorses: A Collection_ tightening.

David chuckles as he strolls over to his cart and leans against it. "Always so prickly," he says, eyes alight with a happiness that both thrills and terrifies Mercy.

"I'm not prickly," Mercy argues, feathers thoroughly ruffled.

"If you say so," David replies loftily. He glances at Mercy then, resting a soft and assessing gaze on him. "Did you get lonely so soon?" The question shouldn't hurt, truly, as it's said in jest, but Mercy _is_ lonely—so lonely that sometimes he doesn't know how he keeps breathing. His face twists before he can manage his reaction; it crumples the barest bit, pain bleeding into his eyes with such raw intensity he _hears_ David's shift in breathing when he notices. "It's okay if you are," he tells Mercy quickly, attitude doing a complete one-eighty. He no longer exudes that light and jesting air of his, but shifts to a lukewarm middle—serious but still wholly earnest and inviting.

"I wasn't," Mercy disputes weakly. "I just needed this book." He doesn't sound convincing even to himself. "Don't get so cocky," he adds desperately in a dreadful attempt to return to their usual banter.

David doesn't take the bait. Instead, he knits his brows together and fetches the radio at his hip. "Calister," he says into the speaker. "I'm taking my break."

Calister sounds a little more than bemused as she responds. _"Should I be worried?"_

David gives the impression he's trying extremely hard not to say something horribly offensive. "Fifteen minutes."

 _"Alright honey,"_ Calister says merrily through the static.

"Come with me," David orders as snatches the book out of Mercy's grasp, discarding it on a nearby table. He then moves press his hand gently into the small of his back, forcing Mercy to follow him, step for step.

Mercy scowls, heart beating too fast. "What are you doing?" he demands, barely fighting off the frantic urge to flee.

David doesn't utter a word in reply as he herds him towards the far right where the study rooms reside. They stop abruptly in front of an empty one, David fumbling with the keys he extracts from his pocket. He eventually finds the correct key, unlocks the door, and all but pushes Mercy inside. "Sit," he says with authority.

Mercy continues to stand on principle.

If David notices, he doesn't say anything. "Something's obviously wrong," he starts. "So you can either tell me what it is willingly or we can sit here until you do. It's your choice."

Mercy grimaces. "Nothing's wrong."

David narrows his eyes. "You're lying."

"I'm not," he snaps, clenched fingers digging into the soft pad of his palm.

"Fine," David sighs tiredly, movement irritated as he sits down jerkily. "Have it your way."

It's Mercy's turn to sigh tiredly after fighting with himself for several moments. "You don't really want to know," he says so softly it's almost inaudible. "People ask 'What's wrong?' but they just want you to say 'Nothing. I'm fine,' so they can go about the rest of their day guilt-free." He glances at David to find his gaze is far too sharp, far too perceptive. It makes him feel weak, vulnerable. David's gaze carves into him like sharpened talons, ripping him up on the inside and making it hard for him to breathe. He wants to break down and tell him everything, but he can't. There's so much; so much he cannot say. Instead, he asks, "Do you ever feel like you're doomed to follow the paths your family has paved for you?"

There's a long pause before David replies. "Every day."

That shakes Mercy, startles him so thoroughly his guards drops completely for a moment. He sits down, not trusting his legs to keep him upright. "I see," Mercy murmurs, lips twisting into a grimace. When he looks up, David's staring at him with an emotion so fleeting Mercy isn't able to discern it before it flashes away.

"Have lunch with me tomorrow." David doesn't say it like he always does, with that damnable lighthearted tone. He says it with real affection and genuine want. "So we can have a _real_ conversation about what seems to be troubling you."

Mercy swallows thickly. He can't seem to control the frantic beating of his heart. He's confused. David's confusing. He doesn't—

"As friends," David corrects. "That's all. Just friends." He smiles, lips stretching beautifully upwards. It touches Mercy in a way he isn't quite sure he could ever admit aloud.

His mouth goes dry as he answers, "Okay."

He half-expects David to look triumphant, but he merely looks softly fond. "Good," he grins as he glances at the clock hanging inside on the study room wall. "Shit—I have to—," he cuts himself off, mind seeming to whirl into overdrive. "Give me your cellphone," he demands suddenly.

Mercy blinks. "What? No."

David's lips twitch like he wants to smile but he's trying not to. "I need it so I can put my number in."

"Absolutely not," Mercy refuses. "Just write it down."

David smirks. "On what paper?"

 _"David, honey, it's been fifteen minutes,"_ Calister's voice interrupts, sweetly static. _"I don't care how cute he is, those books aren't going to shelve themselves."_

Mercy scowls, shrugs his backpack off, and fishes out one of his empty notebooks. He also procures a pen and hands it to David. "There."

"So difficult," David says through a laugh, quickly scribbling down his number before tossing the notebook back into Mercy's waiting hands.

 _"David, I'm serious,"_ Calister chirps from David's hip, _"If you don't respond soon, and I have to leave this desk to find you, you're working all of my weekend shifts for **two weeks**." _

"Shit," David curses, angrily plucking the radio from his hip to snap into it. "I'm going, I'm going. Learn some damn patience."

 _"I'll learn some damn patience when you learn some damn manners,"_ Mercy hears Calister snap back as David ushers Mercy out of the study room, locking the door behind them.

"Gotta go, kid," David tells him, looking admittedly regretful. "Text me your number and we'll discuss lunch." With that said, David claps Mercy on the shoulder and bounds off, leaving Mercy behind confused and conflicted.

He frowns after David's gone, flips open his notebook, and easily enters David's number into his cellphone, saving him as _Annoyance_ in his contacts _._ He types out a quick, _My number is a privilege. If you abuse it, I'll revoke your right to it,_ before tapping send.

He eases his phone back into his pocket, shoves the notebook into his backpack, and mulls over what to do next. Ultimately, he decides to trudge back to his dorm. Once there, he's relieved to find Bentley isn't. It allows Mercy to sit around and relax before deciding to go to bed. He undresses tiredly, crawls into bed, and lets sleep take him.

* * *

Mercy wakes to the sounds of movement, peeks out from under his covers, and finds Bentley rummaging around the room, clothes disheveled and hair in disarray. He doesn't appear to have gotten much sleep. Mercy begins to search lethargically for his phone and finds it's sitting on his bedside table, exactly where he left it. He grabs for it, fumbles it into the warm cocoon of his covers, and presses the unlock button. His screen flashes, showing that he has a text from David, time stamped 2:14 AM.

It reads _, I would never dream of doing such a thing. Have you so little faith in me?_

Mercy snorts groggily. _Yes_ , he texts back before shoving his phone under his pillow and sitting up with a yawn, stretching languidly. "Good morning."

Bentley gawks at him, surprised, before shifting guilty. "... Good morning," he says, frowning as he scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "Um."

Mercy sighs, not yet awake enough to deal with Bentley's special brand of awkwardness. "Yes?"

"Uh, I'm, ah, sorry about... Spencer. He's... He's kind of an asshole."

Mercy snorts. "Kind of?"

Bentley sighs dramatically and collapses on his bed. "Okay, he's a complete asshole," he admits, gesturing his arms wildly. "He shouldn't have been—rough, with you. He doesn't—um... he's not good with people. Uh, yeah."

"I'm not going to blame you for the actions of another, Bentley," Mercy tells him plaintively. "That would be hypocritical of me."

"Oh." Bentley sits up and he looks like guilt personified. "Yeah. Damn, look Mercy, let me make it up to you, okay? You're... cool, uh, and I don't want you to um, hate me... or anything."

"I don't hate you," Mercy says gently, slipping out of his bed. It's true, he doesn't. Quite the opposite, really. Even if Bentley _is_ his watchdog. Still, it would be good to play nice with him. Bentley's not all bad, honestly. If Mercy wasn't a Doyle, he's sure they would have become close friends by now.

Bentley perks up at that. "Awesome. Well, um, there's going to be a party this Friday. Some of the uh, guys, from one of the organizations on campus. You know the ones? Got those weird old symbols for their names—right, well, Spencer's cool with them, so it should be okay."

"I'll pass," Mercy replies smoothly the moment Spencer's name is mentioned.

Bentley, realizing his mistake, widens his eyes comically. "No, no, no—It's cool, I promise. I um, talked to him. He said it was... well, it's ... you can come. There won't be any problems." Bentley ducks his head shyly and Mercy sees, for the first time, the red patch of bruised and irritated skin resting in the curve of his neck. _Ah_.

"I see," he murmurs. He goes to deny the invite for a second time, but something keeps him from doing so. "I suppose I could go," he agrees reluctantly, after a pause.

"Really?" Bentley exhales loudly, his smile like a punch to the gut.

Mercy rolls his eyes. "Yes, _really_." The idea still makes him a bit uneasy, but it's nothing he can't work through later. He walks over to his dresser, rifles through his drawers quickly, and picks out a pair of loose fitting jeans and a blue patterned t-shirt. He dresses quickly, uncaring of Bentley's presence.

"So... cool. Alright. I'll hit you up with the details later. Gotta get a nap in before my afternoon class," Bentley babbles as Mercy gathers up the things he'll need for his classes.

Mercy nods along noncommittally, stuffing textbooks into his backpack. Finally, he snags his phone out from underneath his pillow and turns back to stare at Bentley. "I'll be back later," he informs him.

"Cool. Night, Mercy," Bentley says through a wide yawn before mumbling and rolling over to burrito himself in his covers.

Mercy's lips quirk up at that, but he doesn't fully smile. As he heads out the door, he checks his phone. He finds that David has texted him back.

_No good morning? Your manners are sorely lacking._

_That's a matter of opinion,_ he types back.

His phone goes off almost immediately. _Well then, I suppose it's a good thing my opinions are of superior stock._

Mercy rolls his eyes. _Arrogance doesn't suit you_ , he replies.

 _You're right. You wear it much better,_ David's next text reads. And then, another buzz. _I'm free at noon. Let's have that lunch you promised me._

 _I promised no such thing_ , he starts to type before thinking better and backspacing. _Where at?_ He taps out instead.

He's just rounding the corner of the Willard English building when David responds. _BLESSING CAFE_ , then, a moment later, _Sorry, hit caps on accident._

Mercy snorts at that. _I'll be there_ , his text promises. He pushes his phone back down into his front jean pocket and enters the building. He finds his classroom easily and takes a seat. As he waits for the lecture to start, he thinks about his lunch with David and grimaces. David had said he wished to be friends, but the guilt weighing heavily on his heart serves to remind him that he cannot truly have a friendship if he's keeping secrets.

He doesn't know if David is aware of his parentage, but for better or worse, he needs to tell him.

"Good, half of you brats actually showed up," Professor Ruckshaw grumbles as he lumbers into the classroom.

Mercy banishes all thoughts of David then, and prepares for the ensuing lecture.

* * *

Blessing Cafe is buzzing with activity by the time Mercy manages to get there. He pushes through the doors, scrunches up his nose in annoyance, and navigates to one of the few vacant tables towards the back. He sits down briskly and glances at his phone, checking for the time. He's fifteen minutes early, which isn't at all surprising. The walk from Willard to Blessing Cafe isn't far, as the cafe resides on the fringes of east campus. He doesn't know if David is a punctual person, but Blessing Cafe's atmosphere is a pleasant one. He's quite content to wait here, peaceful even, amongst the surrounding chatter.

His peace, it seems, is not meant to last.

"Wonderful, just who I was looking for. Mind if I take a seat?" Annie asks breezily. She doesn't bother waiting for him to respond as she slides down into the chair opposite of him, smile dazzling.

Mercy's mood blackens swiftly. "Go away," he tells her irritably.

"I'm hurt," Annie pouts. "Here I was, thinking you liked me."

Mercy glowers.

She laughs merrily and tosses her hair over her shoulder as she leans forward, expression cat-like and devious. "Given any thought to the favor I asked of you yesterday?" she inquires casually, tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the table in an unfamiliar, but annoying, rhythm.

"You mean your incredibly lackluster threats?" he questions idly, calmly clasping his hands together.

Annie's eyes light up. "Got a mouth on you today, I see," she chuckles darkly, features twisting maliciously. "If you'd prefer not to cooperate, I can _always_ do something much more devious, seeing as my last threats were so ... _lackluster_."

"You're not as intimidating as you think you are," Mercy tells her coolly, formulating a quick plan of deflection. "You know, it's particularly odd that you know my full name, but I don't know yours. Any reason for that?"

"Oh you clever boy," she coos at him. "Want to look me up in the database, do you? Find out if I'm a super or a norm?" She laughs again, the sound of it grating. "My dear Mercy, all you had to do was _ask_. My surname is Cruz." She looks far too pleased with herself, Mercy decides, to be giving up that sort of information so easily.

Mercy glances at his phone. He has seven minutes to get rid of Annie before David shows up and things take a turn for the worse.

"There's no Annie Cruz on Langley's class roster," he retorts, eyes sharp. He'd checked. Twice.

"Hmmm, is that so?" she hums, maddeningly smug. "I'm flattered you took such initiative. Momma's so proud."

Mercy's eyebrow twitches. "I've no intention of speaking with my brother or arranging for you to meet him. Find someone else to suck up to."

"You think that's what this is about?" she asks, tone mocking. "I take back what I said earlier about you being a clever boy. You're just a average peon," she sighs mournfully. "How disappointing."

Across the cafe, Mercy spies David, and desperation sets in. "I've grown tired of talking with you," he says too quickly. "Leave. _Now_."

"What's got you so spooked?" she wonders aloud, her interest piqued.

Mercy panics. "Just. Go," he snarls darkly, the last of his composure fleeing, eyes darting involuntarily to David.

Annie follows his gaze, seems momentarily confused as her eyes land on David, but then she's smiling slowly, looking as if she's won a fat, expensive prize. "Oh, how _interesting_ ," she sing-songs, flashing a lovely smile at David as he comes to stand in front of their table. He's grinning like an idiot, completely oblivious.

Mercy wants to disappear.

"Who's this?" David asks, gesturing to Annie. "Don't tell me you went and made other friends while I wasn't looking."

"Annie," he says tightly, barely containing his panic, "and she was just leaving."

"Oh no," she chimes in, far too delighted. "I think I'll stay."

David gives her a weird look, but sits down anyway. "Actually, I was hoping to have Mercy all to myself," he says. "You understand?"

Annie glances at Mercy and he sees the intent in her eyes before she ever even opens her mouth. "No, you see," she begins sweetly. "I _don't_ understand. I'm actually rather befuddled. It's not every day you see the notorious Mercurius Doyle having a friendly chat with David _Holloway_ , after all."

 _Holloway_.

Mercy feels the shock as surely as he sees it reflected in David's face.

David _Holloway_.

Eric Holloway's younger brother. The very same Eric Holloway who's the current head of the Board of Supers, the government agency that holds no love for his family.

Mercy feels suddenly and violently sick.

"Oh my," Annie continues cheerfully. "You didn't know?" She turns her body to face David, talking to him now, her tone going from playfully light to downright cruel. "That's not surprising. You aren't the smartest Holloway, after all. Oh no, that right was reserved for your sister. Cecilia, was it? Truly a tragedy what happened to her. Has it really been two years?"

The change in David is as immediate as it is frightful. He goes from the soft, easy-going man Mercy has become acquainted with to an awful, twisted, and angry shell. All the mirth vanishes from his eyes, replaced instead by cold fury. Mercy barely has time to react as David stands, his hands igniting in a blaze of molten fire, sparking heavily with reds, oranges, and yellows.

"Don't you dare talk about Cecilia," he seethes dangerously.

Annie hardly looks bothered. "Why?" she antagonizes. "Because she's dead? Because everyone knows _Mercy's_ brother was responsible?"

" _Shut up_ ," David yells, the fire whipping around his hands growing with intensity, lashing out like a hot and angry sun flare.

Annie giggles and reaches across the table to enclose her hand around Mercy's wrist. "Mercy and I were just talking about what a fool you are, talking so casually with the brother of the man who so brutally slaughtered your sister and got away with it."

David's nostrils flare as he reacts, fire billowing outwards violently, encasing both Annie and Mercy, face contorted with so much pain and fury it's heartbreaking. Mercy snaps into action at once, holding up his hands swiftly, blocking the raging fire that threatens to consume them both with a thin sheet of ice. The ice and fire meet in a clash of blues and reds, hissing horribly as his ices melts instantaneously, falling in a shower of warm water atop Annie and he.

"Violence is hardly necessary," Mercy says wearily, dropping both of his hands to his side. Annie looks only mildly affronted beside him.

"That's rich," David sneers, hands still ablaze, "coming from a _Doyle_."

"Is it?" Mercy whispers, tone fragile. "You don't know a single thing about me."

"I know your last name is Doyle. That's all I _need_ to know," David spits out so coldly, Mercy winces. That's all he is. A name. A name tainted and defiled by his parents, by his brother. It doesn't matter that he's never hurt anyone. That he _would never_ hurt anyone. He's always just going to be a Doyle. A vile, disgusting thing. Something to be _hated_.

Mercy laughs, the sound a sad and broken exhale. "I see." He takes in his surroundings and finds that all eyes in the cafe are trained on him. He deflates. He doesn't want this, nor does he have the energy to deal with it. "I'll stay out of your way," he tells David neutrally, gathering up his things as he turns to stare blankly at Annie. "I'll call him," he promises her through a whisper.

Annie, appearing pleased, saunters to his side, hooks her arm in his, and grins favorably at David. "Thank you for this," she croons at him as they walk past.

There they leave David standing, his arms still aflame.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, I don't know about you, but this afternoon has been far more eventful than I anticipated," Annie says merrily, dragging Mercy determinedly across the courtyard, a woman on a mission. She glances at him, cold brown eyes calculating. "Now, about that phone call," she presses, halting mid-step. Her grip on his upper arm tightens as she jerks him forward abruptly, forcing him to stumble to a stop in front of her.

"Ah, right," he murmurs, mouth dry, everything feeling so otherworldly and just plain wrong.

"No time like the present, hm?" Annie hums, quirking her brows purposefully. When Mercy doesn't respond, she thins her lips impatiently. "Come now, quit your dallying. It's annoying."

Numbly, he fetches his phone with his free arm, ignoring the way his other throbs unpleasantly under Annie's painful grip. He feels hollow as he scrolls through his contacts, thumb hovering over his brother's number hesitantly. He swallows, chest constricting with fear. It hits him swiftly and all at once what he's doing. He recalls somberly the hatred on David's face, the way everyone always avoids him, fears him. Taken aback, he realizes that, in this moment, he deserves their derision, their hate. He's doing exactly what they expect of him; fulfilling their expectations without so much as putting up a fight.

He's playing right into Annie's hands like a hapless child.

The anger that rips through his chest astonishes him. He welcomes it, let's it reverberate to life, filling his chest with courage he didn't know he had. He turns his gaze on Annie, all emotion wiped clean from his face as he holds out his phone. "You do it," he tells her calmly, no tremor in his voice, just bare detachment. "If you want to talk to Cerberus so badly, you call him."

Mercy takes pleasure in the way Annie's mouth parts, the shock apparent on her face. It's quickly replaced, however, by deep seated derision. "You promised," she grounds out, digging her nails harshly into the flesh of his arm.

He shrugs through a wince. "I lied."

"I don't like being lied to, Mercy," she hisses, face contorting in rage. "You will call him. Right now." She composes herself momentarily, face smoothing out. "Or I'll just have to hurt someone close to you," she continues, overly sweet.

Mercy laughs mirthlessly. "And just who would that be?"

"Oh, you're much softer than you let on," she says serenely. "Perhaps no one on this earth cares if you live or die," she sneers, "but you're not nearly as cold, are you?" Anne chuckles lightly. "Oh no, you'd care if someone was hurt because of you. You'd blame yourself. Such a pity, I didn't want to have to resort to this."

"Annie," he urges lowly, "stop."

"Stop what?" she taunts, eyes scanning the surrounding courtyard for a victim. Her gaze lands on a girl sitting innocently on one of the many picnic tables about the courtyard. She has a book lain open on her lap, highlighter poised to attack the unsuspecting text, cap trapped between her lips.

Mercy's eyes widen a fraction. "Annie," he begs, indifference falling away once he comprehends her intention, "don't."

"So authoritative, so demanding," she mocks. "Tell me, Mercy. Why should I listen to you when you won't do me one measly favor?"

His eyes dart to the girl who's still sitting completely unaware, only a few paces away. "I am doing you a favor," he snaps at her through gritted teeth.

That seems to amuse Annie. "Oh, really?"

"Getting involved with my brother is a mistake," he says with absolute certainty.

Annie narrows her eyes. "That's rather for me to decide, isn't it?" She releases Mercy from her hold and takes a step towards the girl, facade snapping into place. Already she looks harmless—just another college girl, no one to bother being suspicious of. The panic in Mercy's heart jumps and, without thinking, he hurries after Annie, grabbing her wrist with haste. "Wait."

Without missing a beat, Annie turns around, grin positively cunning. "Changed your mind so soon?" she inquires with the roll of her eyes. "So weak."

"Friday," Mercy breathes quickly. "Give me until Friday."

Annie tilts her head to the side, expression thoughtful. "Why should I?"

Mercy's mind races desperately for an excuse. "To convince him."

"Convince him?" Annie echoes, unconvinced herself. "You're his brother, aren't you?"

"We don't get along. I would have to... persuade him," Mercy replies, faltering. His excuse is a weak one, he knows, but he needs time to formulate a plan; to find out exactly who the hell Annie Cruz is and how to beat her at her own game.

Annie casts another look at the girl, eyebrows pinched in thought. After a second of internal deliberation, she returns her attention to Mercy. "Very well," she agrees effortlessly. "I suppose I can give you the benefit of the doubt." She strolls towards him, caresses his right cheek with her too-thin, icy fingers and leans in to peck him affectionately on the opposite cheek. "Disappoint me," she whispers harshly into his ear, "and I will destroy you slowly, painfully, and so thoroughly you won't even be able to recall your own name." Annie pulls back, pushes Mercy's face away, and saunters off. As he watches her leave, heels clacking nosily against the cobblestone walkway, the bottom drops out of his stomach.

He's so incredibly screwed.

The moment Mercy walks through his dorm's entrance he starts to wrestle out of his damp clothes. When he goes to wiggle out of his shirt he notices, for the first time, the burn on his left arm. The pain has since dulled, reduced to a manageable, aching throb. The flesh along his forearm is an angry red, no doubt incurred from his confrontation with David. He touches the tender flesh and hisses in pain, frowning. He drops his things onto the floor, fetches his first aid kit from under his bed, and steps into the small bathroom he shares with Bentley. He washes the infected area with warm water first, uncaps a small tube of salve, and rubs it across the irritated skin. He wraps his arm deftly with gauze before putting everything away and sliding the kit back underneath his bed.

He sighs as he massages his temples sluggishly. To say he's stressed would be a terrible understatement.

His thoughts go to David briefly and he clenches his hands at his side. He discards those useless musings immediately, preferring not to torture himself unnecessarily. He allows himself to fall back onto his bed, shifting his line of thinking to Annie. He knows she's a super, that much is clear, but not knowing her ability puts him at a severe disadvantage. She can blindside him easily this way. She figured him out with little effort and he's not sure anything he can do will dissuade her.

The alternative is facing Cerberus, which he can't do. Mercy frowns, memories he'd rather banish to the pits of hell threatening to surface. He blocks them out, pushing them back with a vengeance. No, his brother will bring nothing but trouble and anguish. His father isn't the only Doyle contributing to their notoriety. Modern age supervillains, the media likes to call them.

He sighs. Annie doesn't know what she's asking for.

Everywhere his brother goes, misery follows. The worst of it all is the things he can't say, the secrets his family guards above all else. Secrets he'd readily tell if he wasn't so damn terrified of the consequences. Cowardice, that's all it is. But no, that's not quite right. Mercy, above all others, knows what his brother is capable of. Not even the Board of Supers' famed Supercorps would keep his brother from destroying him.

Mercy laughs hysterically. Let Annie destroy him, as she so boldly claimed she could. The alternative is undoubtedly worse.

Friday, huh, he muses as he rolls over, reaching for his laptop. He boots it up and enters the web address to Amberlin's Ability Database. He types in his citizen access codes familiarly and clicks on the database search engine. He enters the name Annie Cruz and twenty-or-so matches return. He sighs and begins to scroll through them diligently, growing increasingly discouraged when none of the pictures match Annie's likeness or appropriate age. That's odd, he thinks, exiting the database with a scowl.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that Annie is probably little more than a nickname. His scowl deeps as he opens a new window and logs onto the university's online course center. He's in pursuit of the roster Langley had posted a week ago so that they could better contact their classmates. It's just loading when the door to his dorm slams open, startling him.

Bentley stands in the entryway, red faced and out of breath. "You—," he shouts, crossing their shared room in four quick, angry steps. He halts before Mercy, grabs him suddenly by the collar and hauls him to his feet. "You attacked David," he accuses, face knotted in a mixture of confusion and fury.

Shocked, Mercy's hands fly upwards to enclose around Bentley's wrist. He's never seen his—usually docile—roommate so angry before. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. Ah. "I didn't attack David," he begins mildly, the pain of earlier events coming back in full force, like a stampede upon his heart.

Bentley's grasp on Mercy's collar tightens. "That's not what I've heard," he counters, though his expression falters, doubt seeping in. "There were countless witnesses," he tacks on lamely, brows knitting together.

"People often see what they wish to see," he replies curtly, extracting Bentley's hand from his collar. "The truth is rarely what is recounted, especially by a bias crowd."

Bentley frowns. "Why were you even in the same place as David?" he questions, running a hand through his wild mane of auburn curls. "Surely you knew having any sort of contact him wouldn't end well."

"I thought him a friend," Mercy replies, grimacing as his heart shutters painfully, recalling sharply that they were never actually friends. It aches, like an open wound. "Though I was unaware he was a Holloway. The same was true for him. He did not react well upon hearing my full name."

Bentley winces. "Crap," he exhales, all at once looking guilty. "I'm sorry I ... assumed. Uh, damn, I really should have known. David he—his temper is quite, um, unpredictable."

Mercy chuckles self-deprecatingly. "I saw."

Silence stretches between the two of them, Bentley chewing on his lower lip as he stares at Mercy, acting as if he has kicked a small animal. It's annoying. Mercy opens his mouth to tell him so when Bentley's eyes zero in on the gauze encircling his arm. "Holy crap," he exclaims, eyebrows shooting up. "What happened—," he stops talking abruptly, features darkening. He reaches forward to brush his fingers gently against the bandaging. "Mercy," he swallows, "did David burn you?"

Mercy stares at the burn, face blank. "I'm sure it was an accident," he drones, knowing full well that David's intent had been to harm him. He'd seen the hate raging behind his eyes.

There's a pause. Then, Bentley asks worriedly, "Are you going to report him?"

The question is posed as one of concern, but Mercy sees right through it. He should have known, no matter Bentley's intentions, that he wouldn't really be worried for him. "It will solve nothing. The matter is over, such a confrontation will not happen again," he replies stiffly, taking another step back from Bentley. "Don't worry," he begins coldly, "you can tell Eric Holloway I've no intention of causing David further inconvenience by reporting him to the University."

Bentley's mouth falls open. "Uh—what?"

Mercy sighs, irked beyond measure and exhausted. "Do you really think me so ignorant?" he asks, challenge in his words. "There was no way I was going to attend this university without a watchdog. Is my assumption wrong?"

Bentley swallows, clearly nervous. All the color drains from his face as he wrings his hands anxiously with apprehension. "Mercy, it's—it's not like that," he starts, trying in vain to explain himself. "I didn't want to spy on you or anything. I—"

"No," Mercy interrupts as it's no longer within his power to control his ire. "I don't want to hear it. I don't have the energy to endure your excuses. I'm going out." With that said, Mercy sidesteps Bentley and pushes his way out the door.

"Mercy!" Bentley calls after him, the door slamming shut in his face.

Mercy walks briskly and without purpose. He head hurts, his heart hurts, and he merely wants to get the hell away; away from the ghost of friendship he could have had with David, the messed up situation with Annie, and the tense relations with Bentley. He didn't ask for any of this. It makes him feel nauseated with hopelessness. Were he not so proud, he might have gone to a guidance counselor. But no, he laughs bitterly, what councilor would take him without reservations?

He wants to cry, he realizes wearily, but the tears don't come. They stay stubbornly lodged in his throat, refusing to allow him even this one reprieve. His pace slows as he takes a gander of his surroundings. He finds that he's wandered to south side of campus, home to the largest volume of shade trees. He meanders towards the nearest one, an impressive willow with long, winding branches, and rests his head against its trunk. He remains like that longer that he'd like to admit before turning and sliding to the ground. He's thankful that, even though it's only three in the afternoon, this side of campus is virtually empty. Though, he concedes, it helps that he's hidden from view by the south facing wall of the Ackerson science building.

Sitting here in the blazing heat of late summer, Mercy curls into himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, and resting his head on his crossed arms. He feels so small, so fragile, so easily broken. He curls his hands into fists and simmers, emotions toiling away, raging inside of him—pounding against the perfect dam he's constructed around his heart. Pathetic, he thinks angrily. I'm pathetic.

That's when he feels it, the lightest of touches, tiny wings fluttering against his cheek. He blinks his eyes open, taken aback by the single most beautiful butterfly he's ever seen perched on his knuckles. Its wings stretch lazily, antennae twitching. The wings are tipped in ink black, its center a brilliant blue that holds a particular metallic quality. He stills, afraid he'll disturb it. Another lands next to it a moment later, a dazzling shade of white, peppered in black dots and lined with a dusty silver. It crawls slowly up his arm, feet tickling Mercy as it does so.

He's so bewildered he hardly knows what to do.

He's broken from his trance, however, by the clearing of a throat. He shifts his eyes upwards, meeting Bentley's hesitantly shy gaze with his own. Whereas Mercy only has two butterflies resting on his arm, Bentley's covered in them. They're nestled in his striking hair and resting idly on his shoulders while others cling to the front of his shirt and pants. All of them are different colors, breathtaking in their own way. It's a startling sight, that much Mercy can admit.

Bentley twists his lips into an awkward frown. He doesn't seem to know quite what to say. "Um, I've always thought butterflies are beautiful," he starts clumsily, face flushing in his frustration. "They, uh, calm me. When I'm upset." He glances at Mercy then, face complicated. "I upset you," he murmurs apologetically. "It's only right I cheer you up. And, um, explain myself, I guess." He steps towards Mercy then, collapsing into the dirt beside him, the butterflies scattering into flight, fluttering their wings as they soar in sync with one another, twisting and twirling to create continuous, eye catching patterns.

Mercy watches, mesmerized. When the spectacle ends and the butterflies return to their perches—some preferring to nestle into Mercy's hair rather than Bentley's—he turns his eyes on Bentley, suspicious. "I don't understand what you're trying to accomplish," he says after a while, attempting to puzzle out Bentley's motives.

Bentley's shoulders sag. "I come from a well-meaning but poor family. I've... been an acquaintance of Spencer's for many years. I guess you could call us childhood friends, though he's a few years older. Spencer, he," Bentley pauses to look at Mercy before continuing, "he and David have always been on good terms. They're best friends, I guess, and um, I saw the Holloway's frequently, around, y'know, and so when Eric offered to pay for my schooling, I jumped at the chance. All I had to do for a full ride was room with Cerberus' younger brother and," he sighs, shoulders hunching inward, "keep an eye on you. Since you were supposedly evil incarnate."

Mercy laughs softly at that. "Evil incarnate, huh."

Bentley smiles weakly. "But you weren't, y'know, um, any sort of evil. You were kinda like me, I suppose. I don't—Eric was, er, is wrong about you. I won't... spy on you, if you don't want me to," he says quietly, the butterflies surrounding them stilling, wings drooping.

Mercy lets out a long exhale, sympathizing easily with Bentley. "You'll lose your funding for school," he warns gently.

Bentley messes miserably with the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. "I know."

"I don't really care," Mercy says easily. "Tell Holloway whatever you want about me. He'll get a long, boring list of all the terrible things I'm not doing, and you'll get your schooling paid for. I hardly see how it'll be problem."

Bentley turns to stare at him as if he's lost his mind. And, well, Mercy supposes he probably has. "What, seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," Mercy replies, not seeing the issue.

Bentley makes a constipated face, brows furrowed, and lips pinched.

Mercy scowls. "What's wrong with your face?"

"I want to ... hug you," Bentley admits, face flush with embarrassment. "But uh, that's probably weird, two guys hugging. Just—forget I said that. Wow, yeah. Let's not mention that—ever."

Mercy's lips quirk upwards as he fights back smile.

Silences blankets them both as Bentley continues to squirm. "So, er, does this mean we can be friends?" he asks hesitantly.

"You want to be?" Mercy questions with surprise and just a tiny bit of hope.

"Um, of course," he says, scratching at the back of his head. "I mean, only if you want to be. I understand if you don't want to. Even Spencer only tolerates me because we've known each other so long."

Mercy recalls the hickey Bentley had been flaunting so obliviously that very morning and frowns. "Spencer and you aren't involved?"

"What," Bentley shrieks, face almost as red as his hair. "N-No, no, woah, crap uh... why would you think that?" he babbles incoherently, obviously panicked.

Mercy points to his own neck. "Evidence," he returns dryly, his chest warming slightly.

Bentley smacks a hand over his throat, completely mortified. "I'm going to kill him," he seethes. He looks over at Mercy cagily. "It's not what you think," he tries to explain, hands wind milling.

Mercy laughs. "It doesn't bother me."

"No... I mean, we're not—together, or anything," he says dejectedly, looking properly downtrodden. "He only sleeps with me when he's bored."

Mercy scowls.

"I don't blame him," he mumbles. "Who'd want to be with someone as creepy as me, anyway?"

Mercy reaches over to pat Bentley on the head. "You're not creepy," he assures him awkwardly, still frowning himself.

Bentley snorts. "You're the only one who thinks so. When Spencer's not yelling at me, or cursing, or being generally volatile, he just makes fun of me."

"And you sleep with him why?"

If possible, Bentley appears even more depressed. "Because I'm stupidly in love with him." He chokes, eyes darting to Mercy. "Um, w-well..."

"It's fine," Mercy says quickly, brushing it off. "Though," he adds, "you could do better."

"Yeah, right," Bentley scoffs.

Mercy stands abruptly, butterflies still clinging to him. "Let's head back," he tells Bentley. "It's too hot to sit around and mope."

Bentley scowls, affronted. "You were the one moping first. I came here to cheer you up," he grumbles.

Mercy snorts.

"About David," he begins hesitantly.

Mercy's chest constricts painfully. "Stop," he instructs with a sigh, "I don't want to talk about it."

Bentley's mouth snaps shut. "Fine," he gripes, getting to his feet. "But if we're gonna be friends, you need to start calling me Buzz—seriously my name is awful."

Mercy smirks. "Not a chance."

Bentley shoves him good-naturedly.

They spend the entire walk back to the dorm bickering, but not once does Mercy's smile falter.


	5. Chapter 5

Friday arrives with a vengeance.

Annie has kept to her word, leaving Mercy alone throughout the week, even going as far as to avoid him altogether. It unnerves him, truthfully, but he's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. David has been suspiciously absent as well. Though, he concedes, their previous encounters were likely only because David actively sought him out. A part of Mercy wishes to see him, if just briefly, but a larger part of him knows it would lead to nothing good. There's no place left in David's heart for him, be it as a friend or a lover.

Mercy frowns, irritated. He shouldn't be thinking about such things so wistfully. It's unbecoming and pointless.

"What'd that poor book ever do to you?" Bentley asks from across the room, perched on his bed with his legs crossed, laptop propped open on his lap.

Mercy glances up from the book he'd previously been scowling into. "Nothing."

Bentley snorts. "Then why the sour face?"

He shrugs. "No reason."

"No reason, right." Bentley makes a small, disbelieving noise before his bed creaks and Mercy's book disappears from view. "We're friends now, aren't we?" he asks, smile tentative. "That means we tell each other when something is bothering us."

"It's nothing," Mercy says, sighing. "I promise."

A frown mars Bentley's normally exuberant face. "Uh... well, um, fine. You just looked irritated, s'all."

Mercy rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. "Book," he orders. "Now, please."

"Sheesh," Bentley exhales, tossing the book into Mercy's lap. "Anyone ever tell you that you're difficult?"

Mercy pauses, familiar twinge flaring up in his chest. "Quite often," he replies softly.

"Well, whatever." Bentley returns to his bed to sulk, once again clacking away noisily at his keyboard. Mercy's allowed five blessed minutes of silence before Bentley pipes up again. "You, um, skipped your morning classes," he accuses awkwardly. "Why?"

Mercy stiffens, grip on his book tightening. "Because I felt like it."

"You never miss a class," Bentley points out, clearly suspicious.

Instead of replying, Mercy ignores Bentley and flips to the next page in his book. He'd skipped his morning class because he was unable to uncover who Annie is; which means he still doesn't know what kind of super she is or how he can prevent her from manipulating him. Langley's roster had been suspiciously removed from the online course center, and Mercy has no other way of discovering Annie's real name short of asking her. As things are now, he can't chance running into her. He's too ill-prepared, especially considering he hasn't contacted his brother.

"Come on man, don't ignore me," Bentley whines, interrupting Mercy's thoughts. "That's not cool."

"You're asking annoying questions," Mercy tells him easily, "of course I'm going to ignore you."

He represses a smile at Bentley's ensuing grumbling. "Well, at least tell me you're still coming to that party tonight," Bentley grouches, brows furrowed and lips pinched.

"Party," Mercy echoes, memory faltering. It takes him a beat to recall what Bentley's referring to. "Oh, right. That party." He has no particular desire to attend a, no doubt, alcohol fueled and hormonal college function, but the way Bentley's looking at him makes him think twice about going back on his word. "I told you I would, didn't I?"

A wide grin stretches across Bentley's face. "Great!" he exclaims. "We'll take your car, then."

Mercy pauses midway through turning to the next page in his book. "Pardon?" he says, dubious. "How do you know I have a car?"

Bentley huffs out a laugh. "Your family's rich. It'd be weird if you didn't have one. Uh," he falters, looking suddenly shy and sheepish. "I didn't mean to assume that you, uh, that you had one."

Mercy glowers. "We're not taking my car."

"Uh," Bentley starts, obviously holding back a laugh. "Then we can always ride with Spencer?"

Mercy makes a face. "Definitely not."

"That's what I thought," Bentley replies, a shit eating grin transforming his face delightedly.

Had Mercy known having a friend would be so irritating, he wouldn't have bothered.

Suddenly, all the mirth vanishes from Bentley's face. "Um—er—," he tries, looking far more pathetic than usual.

"Yes?" Mercy prods.

"David's gonna be there," he says in a rush, face flushed. "So, if that—uh, bothers you. We don't have... we don't have to go?"

Mercy shrugs, pointedly ignoring the unease pooling in the pit of his stomach. "It won't be an issue."

Bentley doesn't seem convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Bentley," he snaps, "I'm sure."

"Um, okay, if you say so...," he trails off, face simultaneously hopeful and conflicted. "We can avoid him easily. I mean, it's a big party, right?"

Mercy isn't any more convinced than earlier. Despite his doubt, he still has to push down a small bud of hope that blossoms, threatening to overwhelm him. Hoping is what got him into this particular predicament in the first place; he won't allow it to cause him even more heartache. "Right," he replies tersely.

"I was serious about us not having to go, y'know! We could, uh, stay in and um, well, we could—,"

"Bentley," he cuts in. "It's fine. Really."

Bentley squirms uncomfortably. "I suck at this," he admits, shoulders drooping. "Sorry."

Mercy sighs, finding himself feeling pathetically fond. "I said it was fine, didn't I? Don't stress yourself out over pointless things."

"Your feelings aren't pointless," Bentley argues, crossing his arms defiantly.

While Mercy enjoys the sentiment behind Bentley's statement, he's not one to dwell on that which he cannot change. His feelings on the matter aside, life is what it is; sometimes terrible things happen for no reason at all. "How I feel," he pauses, frowning, "how I felt about David is irrelevant. I am perfectly capable of being cordial, as I'm sure he is." He clears his throat before continuing, "Now, what time should we leave?"

"Um, eight would be best," Bentley says, uncertain, "probably."

"Very well."

* * *

"Please tell me you aren't wearing that," Bentley says, eying Mercy's current outfit with exasperation.

Mercy glances down at his clothes and scowls. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" he asks, annoyed. He's wearing one of his nicer black dress shirts, complete with a similarly colored tie, a gray vest, and matching slacks. He even styled his hair accordingly.

"We're going to a party not a gala," Bentley complains. "You're supposed to wear something like this," he says, gesturing to himself. He's wearing a god awful teal polo, paired with newer looking jeans.

"I'm not dressing like that," Mercy says, eyes narrowed. "You look ridiculous."

"You're the one who's going to look ridiculous," Bentley protests hotly as he heads to the door in an irritated huff. "Don't blame me when some drunk girl spills her drink all over your expensive clothes," he says over his shoulder as he exits, motioning for Mercy to follow suit.

Mercy's car is where he left it the first day he arrived on campus, parked in the back of the tiny lot assigned to their dorm. The silver vehicle is compact, ordinary, and not ornately flashy at all. He hadn't wanted to stand out any more than he already did, so he'd requested a more common model. His father had accommodated him with the wave of his hand, a formal memo attached to the steering wheel where it had been placed by one of his father's numerous secretaries.

"That's your car?" Bentley asks, sounding inappropriately devastated.

Mercy unlocks the doors and eyes Bentley with annoyed passivity. "Yes," he says. "What were you expecting?"

"Something way cooler than this," he replies sulkily, sliding into the passenger seat. "Maybe a sports car?"

Mercy raises a single, dubious brow. "Do I strike you as someone who would drive something so flashy?"

Bentley hunches into the seat, reaches across himself to pull his seat belt down, and clicks it the receiving clasp. "You're right, a boring car for a boring guy."

Mercy refrains from rolling his eyes, shifts the car in gear, and pulls out of the tiny parking lot. "If you're done insulting my choice in vehicle," Mercy snips, "you could start giving me directions to where we're supposed be heading."

"Oh," Bentley exhales, suddenly way more excited, "right, right! Um, take a left on University way, and...," he begins, rattling off the directions one after another. Mercy follows them diligently, merging onto the interdivision highway without incident.

Aspen isn't a large city by any means, though it does have several highways that run through it. One to the west, towards Sage Lake, another towards the east, the last one—the very highway they're currently driving down—branches south, towards Division Two. The southern region of Division One is predominantly rural, prime land for farming. And, Mercy supposes, loud parties thrown by irresponsible college students.

The old dirt road they turn down is already littered with cars, ranging in colors and types. Mercy parks towards the back, away from other cars.

"Damn," Bentley says suddenly, "we're late."

"Does it matter?" Mercy asks cavalierly, already opening his door and swinging his legs out. Once his shoes hit the ground they kick up an alarming amount of dust, promptly coating his freshly shined shoes. He scowls, already annoyed.

Bentley, who has rounded the front of the car, guffaws once he sees the state of Mercy's shoes. "I told you man, you're way overdressed."

"Yes, well," he says primly, "it's far too late to change now."

Bentley, much to Mercy's displeasure, keeps laughing. "Sorry, sorry," he apologizes, smile wide and apology weak. "Come on let's hurry before, uh, the alcohol is all gone—um, wait. Are you drinking? Crap, I mean, I can ... not drink, if you want to have a few. With the week you've had you've totally earned the right—"

Mercy sighs and fixes his tie as Bentley prattles on. "I don't drink," he states, putting a stop to his roommate's incessant blathering.

"What," Bentley squawks. "How can you not drink?"

"I'm not fond of having my thoughts muddled and inhibitions weakened," he snaps back, irritated.

"Uh, okay, that makes sense, I guess," Bentley replies. He's quickly distracted, however, as they near the entrance. The house is large, painted off-white, with a grand porch held up by six grooved columns. It's unsurprisingly noisy, even from the outside. There's two men standing just outside the front entrance, clearly there to greet them; one's over-large in stature and the other's a thin, petite young man.

Mercy has learned to never to judge someone's strength by their physical appearance, as not all abilities reflect in a super's stature or girth.

"Names," the over-large one says, scowling boorishly.

"Um," Bentley falters, flustered, "B-Bentley Carthridge."

The petite man swiftly flips through the list secured to his clipboard, nods his head easily, and smiles at Bentley. "Buzz, right? Spencer's mentioned you," he says, smirking with too much familiarity.

"O-Oh, you, uh," he clears his throat. "You know Spencer?"

"In a manner of speaking," the man returns, smirk morphing into a leer. "My name's Ashley, though any friend of Spencer's may call me Ash." The bulkier of the two glares warningly at Ash, who in turn, winks. "Easy there, Dominik, I'm just being conversational with our guests."

Dominik glowers, but returns his attention to Mercy. "And your name?" he asks gruffly.

"Mercurius Doyle," he supplies indifferently.

Dominik doesn't appear phased in the least but Ash's expressive face is awash with shock. He pushes a long, golden tress behind his ear and scans the list quickly. "Well, what do you know," he says tightly, "looks like you _are_ on the list."

Mercy acknowledges Dominik, who has since fixed his dark eyes on him, gaze considering. "You're shorter than Cerberus," he comments.

"You know my brother?" Mercy asks, surprised.

Dominik nods. "We've met," he replies neutrally.

"I see," he says, managing to keep his face placid as he snags Bentley by the upper arm. "Bentley, let's go." He inclines his head at Dominik and Ash. "Thank you, gentlemen."

The moment they step into the house, Mercy's senses are assaulted by the explosive noise and overwhelming stench of alcohol. He scrunches up his nose, fusses with the bottom of his vest, and lets Bentley lead him down the dark hallway. The moment they reach the living room, they're confronted with a mass sea of bodies gyrating to some sort of pop-techno mash up.

Despite all the commotion, Bentley still turns to Mercy, panicked as he says, "You don't think Spencer's sleeping with that Ash guy, do you? I mean, he's uh, pretty," he swallows, "way prettier than me."

"It's likely he only implied he was sleeping with Spencer to antagonize Dominik," Mercy says, attempting to speak over the noise as he pulls away from Bentley. "If you're worried, I'm sure Spencer is around," he pauses to take in his surroundings, "somewhere."

Bentley frowns worriedly. "I can't look for him right now. Um, he'll just think I'm being clingy." He eyes the dance floor, thoughtful, before grinning widely. "Hey, do you want to—"

"No," Mercy refuses automatically. "I'm not dancing."

"Aw, come on Mercy," Bentley fusses, already tugging at his hand. "Don't be a stick in the mud."

Mercy grimaces. "I'd rather be a stick in the mud than rub my body all over strangers."

Bentley laughs. "Gees, you really aren't good at this whole college party thing, are you?"

"I'm not good at anything undignified," he replies, miffed. He'd only come for Bentley's sake. He supposes he should have some sort of fun but he draws the line as letting some strange person rub their junk on his backside and vice versa. It's far too intimate for him. He's not even used to friendly glances, much less things of a far intimate nature, especially public displays of intimacy. The few fumbles he's had in the dark, with men who wouldn't acknowledge in him the daylight, hardly count.

"Suit yourself," Bentley says with a shrug, leaving his side to snag a beer out of the nearest ice chest and join the mass of writhing bodies.

Mercy presses two fingers to his temple and sighs. He watches Bentley for a few songs, content to lean up against the nearest wall. No one approaches him, thankfully and Bentley bounds back over to him shortly thereafter covered in sweat, eyes considerably more glazed. "Hey," he greets cheerfully. "I think I saw Spencer."

Mercy stares at him oddly. "Okay."

"Um, I'm gonna—well, he invited me, uh, us, so I should at least say hi, right?" he babbles, seeking some sort of permission from Mercy.

"I'm not your keeper," Mercy tells him, slightly amused.

"No, I'm _your_ keeper," Bentley laughs, slapping Mercy too hard on the shoulder. "Okay, I'll be right back!" And then he's bounding off, weaving through the myriad of bodies with ease, leaving Mercy alone once more.

When Bentley doesn't return after a while, Mercy leaves his perch against the wall to seek out a refreshment of the non-alcoholic variety. He finds some easily enough, a pack of cola sitting innocently on the kitchen counter, obviously meant to be a mixer. He grabs a can, chills it, downs and discards it, before starting back to where Bentley left him. It's then he's snagged by the hand suddenly and jerked into a nearby hallway. He turns his head, irritated and ready bite some drunk asshole's head off, when he sees who it is. All the fight drains from his body. "Holloway," he greets curtly, very aware that David's hand is still gripping his.

David looks good, dressed in a form fitting, dark red shirt that flatters his lean muscles and a pair of black pants that hug his hips snugly, accenting his width and leaving nothing to the imagination. It angers Mercy that he still finds David attractive. The hallway his so dimly lit, he can't make out the emotion toiling away behind David's eyes, but when he speaks, his intent is clear. "I didn't think you'd actually show up," he says, tone laced with cruel amusement. "Spencer told Buzz to invite you as a joke."

A sharp pain spasms in his chest while Mercy fights to suppress the hurt of those words. He'd known, deep down somewhere, that this night wasn't going to end well for him, but he'd come anyway. "I guess the joke's on you," he replies coldly, looking up at David blankly. They stand there for a moment in silence, both saying nothing else. After a while, Mercy moves to free himself from David's grasp, but the other man tightens his hold on him. Mercy frowns. "Let go of me," he demands. "I've nothing further to say to you."

Anger morphs David's features, but there's something else there, something small and easily concealed. It almost looks like hurt. "What was the point of talking to me?" he asks harshly. "Was your intention to get to my brother? To hurt him to appease your own disgusting brother?"

Mercy glares, wishing to be anywhere but here in this loud, overbearing, and unfamiliar house. "Had I known who you were, I wouldn't have bothered indulging you in conversation." He sighs wearily. "My intention was never to deceive you."

"You expect me to believe that?" David snaps, his anger flaring up once more.

"I've no reason to lie to you," Mercy tells him, irritation growing.

David glowers. "All your family is good for is lying."

That causes Mercy to snap. "For a man speaking so righteously, was it not you who attacked me, not the other way around?" Mercy questions, hurt and anger welling up inside of him. "I did nothing to warrant your actions. You behave like a spoiled child and you dare talk to me in such a demeaning fashion." He leans forward then, shaking with the force of his anger and bitterness. "Let me tell you this, if you think my brother so disgusting, so cold and irredeemable, imagine how it must have been for _me_ , his younger, defenseless brother." Mercy pauses abruptly to collect himself and fight back the angry tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "If you believe you've more reason to hate Cerberus than I, you are sadly mistaken," he breaks off quietly, sentence more distressed than hateful.

David's face shifts, conflicted as he rubs the back of his head, obviously perturbed. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something but he bites it back with a muttered, "Whatever."

The moment David releases Mercy's hand, a familiar voice interrupts them. "Oh _there_ you are Mercy! I was looking for you _everywhere_."

A chill runs down Mercy's spine and, in a bout of panic, he grapples wildly for David's hand, grip desperate. David looks down at him, thoroughly surprised and bewildered, but he doesn't immediately bat Mercy's hand away. Fear courses through Mercy's body as he takes Annie in. She's dressed in a more gender neutral, loose fitting tank top and a pair of basketball shorts that hang low on her hips. Her hair is done up prettily, twisted creatively and pulled back into a ponytail. She smiles, grin shark-like as she saunters closer. "My, my," she coos, batting her eyelashes obnoxiously, "don't tell me you got all dolled up for little old me?"

Mercy grits his teeth, taking small comfort in the warm, gentle touch of David's hand.

Annie steps forward to slide up against the side David's hulking height isn't blocking, draping her arm across Mercy's shoulders with possessive intent. He tenses, heartbeat notching up in tempo. She looks shrewdly at David. "Oh, what a surprise," she purrs. "I didn't think I'd see the likes of you again after you tried to _burn us alive_." She laughs merrily and leans in to stroke Mercy's cheek affectionately.

Mercy winces away from her touch, grip on David's hand tightening.

David continues to frown at his side, eyes narrowed as he glares mildly at Annie.

Annie presses her body forward, practically draping herself all over Mercy. "It's seems I've had too much to drink," she says, clearly stone sober. "Mercy, won't you help me back to my car?"

David glances down at his hand, which is still clasped tightly in Mercy's. "You shouldn't drive if you've had too much to drink," he warns, hard bite to his tone. "I'll find you a ride."

Annie frowns nastily. "I'll just ride with Mercy, then," she counters, covering up her slip with an overly false smile. She trails a hand down the front of Mercy's chest, hooking her fingers beneath his tie. "We've some... _intimate_ things to discuss," she husks, nuzzling into Mercy's chest, mannerisms feline and greedy. "You understand?"

That serves only to further irritate David. "I see," he says darkly, pulling his hand harshly from Mercy's grip. "I'll leave you two alone, then."

Mercy watches helplessly as David stalks off, cry for help stuck in his throat. He fights to calm his beating heart, mind whirling. It's better if David leaves. That's one less person for Annie to try and use against him. While he doesn't know what to make of David, he'd never wish for him to be harmed.

"Now that we're alone," Annie hums, "mind explaining why you skipped out on Langley's class? Hoping to avoid me, little Doyle?" She shifts her body to press him flush against the nearest wall, hands tightly encircling both of his arms.

"Perhaps I felt ill," he says softly, turning his head away from her, wishing he wasn't so weak-willed.

Annie laughs. "Perhaps. Or," she grabs him roughly by the chin, forcing him to look her in the eye, "you were afraid of telling me you didn't hold up your part of our bargain."

Mercy swallows. "Even if I called him, he wouldn't come. Not for me."

"That's where you're wrong," she says. "Cerberus cares for you more than you will probably ever realize."

"How would you know?" Mercy returns, gaze suddenly sharp. In her haste, Annie has let much more slip than she intended. "I thought you wanted to _meet_ him."

"Meet him, yes," she affirms. "But just because I've never spoken directly with him doesn't mean he and I don't have a long standing _connection_."

"What—"

"Never mind that," she says breezily. "It'll all be much clearer later." She rears back, seems to consider Mercy for a moment, and then chuckles. "Since you insist on being so stubborn, I suppose there's no harm and having a little fun with you first. I'm not the most patient person, but I _can_ be if I'm thoroughly... _distracted_."

Between the span of one blink and the next, Annie's lips are on his, taking what was not given freely with greedy force, nipping and sucking unpleasantly. She pushes her leg up between his, takes his gasp of surprise in stride, and deepens the kiss. As she shoves her tongue past the barrier of his lips, Mercy begins to struggle, appalled she would be so brazen. She licks inside his mouth forcibly, getting a taste of him before she withdraws. As she does so, Mercy bites down hard, ripping into her lower lip viciously, causing Annie to pull back with a groan of pain. He gasps for breath, the metallic tang of blood polluting his mouth with its thick consistency.

Annie's grinning at him, blood oozing from her lip languidly. She wipes the blood away with something akin to amusement. "What's wrong, am I not your type?" she mocks, laughing horribly.

Mercy spits out the blood coating his mouth. " _What_ ," he seethes, "was that?"

Annie smirks. "Some people refer to it as a kiss, something shared between lovers," she taunts. "Though I suppose I could never be your lover. Wrong gender for you, and all." Her smirk grows then, and for the first time that night, Mercy is truly frightened. "Well, I suppose I could fix that easily enough. Say, Mercy, do you know what Annie is short for?" She pauses, giving Mercy ample time to respond, though he doesn't. " _Antonio_."

Her features distort then, rippling as her bones crack, rearranging themselves into a neat, handsome, and decidedly _male_ face.


	6. Chapter 6

It's unsettling, taking in Annie's sudden change in physique. Even as a man—as Antonio—he's still shorter than him, though much broader. He fills out the tank top he's wearing perfectly, torso toned while still remaining lean. His face has become wider, more masculine, but still he resembles Annie, still has the same cold eyes and tumbling brown hair pulled back into an intricate ponytail. It unnerves him. "You're a man," he states, words even, if a bit thrown.

"Biologically, perhaps," Annie—Antonio?—affirms, ridiculously amused. "Though I admit, it's no hardship living life as a woman. You can get away with so much _more_. Womanly wiles are incredibly useful, after all." His eyes take in Mercy appreciatively, their bodies still pinned closely together. He leans down, lips a hair's breadth away from Mercy's ear. "But, really," he husks, scraping his teeth along the outer shell of Mercy's ear, "being a man is _just_ as much fun. I could hardly give up either."

Mercy grimaces in disgust, pressing his body as far back into the wall as he can. "Sorry, but you'll never be my type," he grounds out, hands clenching into fists at his side.

Antonio snorts at that. "No?" He pulls back, a cruel edge to his smile, eyes alight with devilry. "And what _is_ your type? Tall, dark, and handsome from earlier? My, my, Mercy. Who would have thought you like your men with a dash of honor and a whole lot of repressed anger?" He laughs. "What sort of relationship could you ever hope to have with a Holloway?"

"Shut up," Mercy seethes, fright buried beneath the rapidly rising anger within him.

Antonio smirks. "There's that little spitfire I do so love to antagonize. Ready to come out and play? Your passivity is quite boring, I'll have you know." His hands snatches forward then, threading into Mercy's hair, grip twisted tight, tugging harshly at his scalp.

Mercy glares through a wince. "Let me go," he orders.

That seems to amuse Antonio more than anything. "Or what?" He chuckles. "You're so defensive tonight, Mercy. It's _cute_."

"I tire of your games and cryptic riddles," Mercy snaps, giving Antonio a harsh push away from himself. The other man stumbles back a few paces, chuckling with beguilement as he straightens out his stature and hooks a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Mercy's confidence intensifies the second he's no longer pinned to the wall and he continues boldly, "I've told you there's nothing I can do to help you, yet you refuse to listen. You're playing a dangerous game with players you've yet to fully understand."

Antonio regards him coolly, odd spark in his eye. "Perhaps," he hums. "But my dear Mercy, you're the one foolishly playing the game without first seeing the board in its entirety. A mistake that, I'm afraid, is going to come at a terrible cost."

Mercy's gaze sharpens, but he says nothing, merely turns by his heel and starts to stride off. Antonio's quicker, however, reaching out to snag him by his burned forearm. Mercy winces through the sudden, explosively bright pain and turns to settle a furious gaze on Antonio. "Unhand me," he demands. "This conversation has ended."

"This conversation doesn't end until I say it does," Antonio says, curling his fingers into the gauze of Mercy's bandage, nails sharp. "And since you've been such a disobedient little boy, I wager it's about time I punish you properly, wouldn't you agree?"

"I will defend myself," Mercy warns hotly, what remains of his composure falling apart at the seams.

"Oh, I'm _counting_ on it," Antonio sneers, bones already starting to crack and rearrange themselves, creating a particularly monstrous visage. His shoulders buckle before expanding outwards with rapid force, hips widening, and legs shooting up. His face morphs familiarly, twisting into a heartbreakingly cruel imitation. Here, standing before him, is no longer Annie or Antonio, it's a depraved version of David, distorted with callous eyes and a malicious smile. Antonio laughs with David's face, the sound sickening in its familiarity. "You said I'd never be your type," he says with David's voice, husky and sinful. "I'm afraid you spoke too soon."

Mercy takes a shaky step backwards, teeth grinding against one another. He feels the familiar tingle of his hands icing over, preparing for the worse. Merely staring at Antonio as David is jarring; it throws him off so effectively he doesn't see the attack coming until it's too late.

Antonio whips forward in flash, once again fisting his hands into Mercy's short, coal black hair as he slots David's lips against Mercy's, kiss demanding and far too intimate. Mercy goes to resist, to push against Antonio, but it's David's chest his fingers find themselves pressing into, David's flesh that meets his icy fingers with welcoming warmth. He feels Antonio's hand slide around his waist to his lower back, touch feather light as he traces the outline of Mercy spine upwards. He's so caught up in the moment, in the heat of lips that don't belong to Antonio that he almost gives in, almost allows it to _just happen_.

He jerks back suddenly, face red with anger and mortification. " _No_ ," he gets out, breath labored as he inhales sharply, gasping for air.

Antonio smirks, the expression disgustingly attractive on David's face. "Don't resist," he urges, hand a tight knot of fingers snared in Mercy's hair. "Isn't this what _you_ want? To be wanted by him?" Antonio's hand skirts around the edge of Mercy's waistband. "I can give it to you, if you want. It would be ... _mutually beneficial_ , you could say."

Mercy's ice cold hands are already tightly tangled in Antonio's tank top and thrumming with repressed power as his face contorts with repulsion. "You're nothing but scum," he spits, whisper carrying only derision.

"I'm quite aware," Antonio coos, hot breath ghosting over Mercy's raw and abused lips.

Mercy captures Antonio's gaze, looks directly into those empty, cold brown eyes that aren't his to imitate, and decides. He reacts swiftly, ice crystals shooting out from his nail beds, sharp and curved like talons. He slashes outwards, shredding Antonio's tank top and leaving behind an array of shallow, angry red scratches.

Antonio steps back with a hiss, hands automatically flying to his chest, further smearing the bloody mess Mercy has inflicted upon him. "So feisty," he muses with a dark chuckle. "I can appreciate that."

Mercy schools his expression, rights his posture, and glares furiously at Antonio. "Never touch me again."

"I'll take it under consideration," Antonio returns with the obvious intent to never consider his demand at all.

Mercy opens his mouth to sneer back in reply, when Bentley's stumbles into the hallway, hair a wild mess and eyes glazed over. "Oh, thank crap, Mercy! I've been looking for you ... uh," he pauses quizzically to stare at Antonio. "David? Uh, what the ... when you'd change clothes... and _what the heck happened to your chest?!_ "

Taking advantage of Mercy's momentary lapse in concentration, Antonio darts forward, steals a hard, brutal kiss, and then rears back to discard him with a hard shove. "I'll be seeing you, Mercy," he promises playfully as he sashays away.

Bentley gapes, beer forgotten in his hand. " _Woah_ ... were you just hate making out with David?"

His ice talons melt, leaving his hands moist and slightly chilled. "Not now, Bentley," Mercy says with a weary sigh.

"How were you hate making out with David?" Bentley continues, bewildered as he voices his thoughts aloud. "I _just_ saw him."

"Bentley, _please_ ," Mercy tries, feeling sick while he curses Bentley's horrible timing.

"Man, I know I'm not _that_ drunk," he says, laughing nervously. "Seriously, what's going on?"

"If I promise to explain everything later, will you shut up?"

Bentley blinks, surprised. "Uh, yeah. I can, uh, I can do that," he agrees, frowning.

Mercy wanders into the main foyer of the house, dodging the sloppy drunks and couples canoodling up against walls. Bentley trails after him, diligently remaining silent. Though, as Mercy heads for the front door, he doesn't seem to be able to take it anymore.

"Mercy, uh, where are you going?" he asks tentatively.

"Outside," Mercy says. "It's too hot in here. I can't breathe."

"Probably because you were just sucking face with David," Bentley grumbles under his breath, forcing Mercy to remind himself not to lose his cool again. "Are we leaving cause, uh, I need to—well, I told Spencer that I'd, um, we were going to," he sighs, frustrated. "Mercy I'm way too drunk right now to try and understand you," he whines, reaching forward to touch Mercy's shoulder gingerly.

"I just need to get some air," he says vehemently. "You're not obligated to follow me around like a lost puppy."

"Wha— _hey!_ I thought—... I'm not a _lost puppy_ ," Bentley protests, face exposing a soft, hurt rage.

Mercy feels as if he's going to explode. There's too much he hasn't dealt with, too much he _can't_ deal with. He just wants to whip around and punch Bentley in the face, but he knows— _he knows_ _—_ Bentley isn't to blame; that taking it out on him, his only damn friend, is the exact opposite of what he should be doing. But he just—can't. Not today. He can't open his mouth and spill his darkest secrets to a wide-eyed Bentley who is, no doubt, under the influence of alcohol and who knows what else.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs miserably, feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

"Man, it's—okay, I mean, uh, I've been called worse. Are you sure you're okay?"

Mercy forces a smile so fake it might as well have been made of plastic. "I'm sure. I just need to ... not be inside. Don't worry about me. Weren't you saying something about Spencer?" Spencer, who hates his guts but Bentley loves blindly, faithfully, lovesick in the worst way.

"Ah, yeah...," Bentley says, frowning in confusion. "But I haven't gotten to, y'know, hang with you. Spencer can wait." And damn, he looks so earnest it really tears Mercy up inside. But he can't let him be around him when he's like this. It would be far too easy to slip up, to involve him in things he has no business knowing about; things that could mess his life up irreversibly.

"We live together," Mercy says, pointing out the obvious. "Go. I won't be offended."

Bentley frowns, though it comes off more as a pout. "Well, if you're sure..."

Mercy sighs. "I'm sure."

Bentley gives Mercy's shoulder a squeeze, sends him one last, lingering look before stumbling up the stairwell to the second floor.

Mercy scowls after him, metaphorical storm clouds gathering to blacken his mood. He pushes past a particularly inebriated girl and stomps out of the house with an undignified huff. The muggy heat greets him, thick with humidity and the buzzing whir of crickets. He grimaces immediately, stalking across the wooden porch as he unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves with agitation to combat the sudden, stifling heat. He's so intent on addressing his stuffy attire, he doesn't notice he isn't alone on the porch until he hears a low, amused chuckle.

He turns his attention sharply to the right, brooding glare ready to be exercised on whoever is laughing at him.

Dominik is leaned back in the sole wooden swing hanging from the porch's ceiling. His demeanor is sanguine and relaxed, a single cigarette held precariously between his lips, cherry burning brightly.

"What," Mercy snaps, in no mood to deal with any one single person, much less the party's self-appointed bouncer.

Dominik shrugs, removes the cigarette from his lips, and exhales. "My apologies," he rumbles conversationally. "You merely looked properly trite." He smiles slow and languid, flicking his cigarette absently over the ashtray lain beside him.

"Yes, well," Mercy straightens out his vest and scowls. "That's none of your business."

"Never said it was," Dominik drawls. He gestures to the left of the swing, moving his ashtray to the right armrest as he says, "Why don't you take a seat?"

Mercy opens his mouth to say something biting, to refuse Dominik's offer, but finds himself saying, "Alright," instead and easing down onto the swing. It rocks back under his weight, but the wood's smooth and the breeze is pleasant so he doesn't find himself too annoyed.

"Bad night?" Dominik asks, taking another drag of his cancer stick.

"No," Mercy tries to retort, but what comes out is a simple, "Yes." He clamps his mouth shut immediately, frowning in confusion and frustration.

He glares accusingly at Dominik, who merely grins. "The smoke bothering you?"

"Yes," he replies rudely, "considering I came out here to get some fresh air. Beyond that, it's unhealthy and will kill you eventually."

Dominik laughs softly at that. "Eventually, huh." He snuffs the cigarette out in the ashtray, turning his dark gaze on Mercy.

Mercy ignores him and lets his thoughts wander. He's had far too much confrontation for one night. He's exhausted, emotionally and physically. He's a proper mess, is what he is. A disaster waiting to happen. Just thinking about Antonio—Annie— _whatever_ , gives him a right headache. He has the sinking feeling there's no safe way out of this situation. It seems almost impossible to keep Cerberus out of the equation and that in of itself is enough to throw Mercy into a fit of panic.

Dominik stands suddenly, startling Mercy from his thoughts. He's a tall guy, Mercy notes, well-muscled, with shaggy brown hair and eyes so dark a gold they almost appear brown in the dim lighting of the porch. Mercy frowns up at him. "You don't have to leave," he tells him contritely. "I'd no intention to disturb your peace."

Dominik regards him with soft amusement. "You're troubled," he states. "My presence won't allow you privacy."

"Privacy?" he questions tiredly. "That's not a novelty I'm permitted often." The words are bitter, filled with a lifelong anguish that stems from belonging to a family constantly in the public eye for nefarious reasons. He twists his lips into a dour frown. "Sorry, I don't mean to be so depressingly honest." Especially to a stranger.

"Ah, that would be my fault," Dominik says, his words holding a surprising amount of his own brand of bitterness.

Mercy snorts. "My honesty or my bitterness?"

Dominik chuckles. "Your honesty, though your bitterness I understand." He reclaims his seat on the swing, rocking it more forcefully with his weight than Mercy had. "I cannot be lied to," he admits. "A walking lie detector, or rather, someone who inspires honesty without consent."

It strikes him, suddenly, why Dominik was chosen to ask for their names. One cannot lie to a super whose ability makes others honest.

Mercy smiles, rueful. "Lies are pretty things, aren't they? Much prettier than the truth, though far more harmful."

Dominik hums thoughtfully as he leans back in the swing. "I suppose."

"You said you've met my brother," Mercy recalls, twisting his body to stare at Dominik. "When?"

"A long time ago," Dominik answers, eyes faraway. "He took something from me. Though," he laughs gently, "I don't suppose I'd ever want it back."

Mercy freezes as he echoes, "Took something?"

"Mm," Dominik nods. "A memory."

Mercy all but leaps out of the swing, eyes wide and heart beating faster than a jack rabbit's. "You know," he realizes aloud. "How do you...," his face darkens, etched with fear. " _How do you know?_ "

Dominik doesn't even appear affected by Mercy's sudden change in demeanor. "Know what?"

"About my brother's real ability," he says, honest words spilling out of his mouth like burning acid, "No one knows. Not even the government." He staggers back, hand flying to his mouth as horror fills his gut.

Dominik remains maddeningly calm. "He told me." He pauses. "He couldn't lie to me, when I asked."

"And he didn't kill you?" Mercy replies, truly astonished.

"No," he says easily. "Cerberus was quite cordial. He took a memory from me, one I didn't want, in exchange for my silence."

"You're lying," Mercy accuses, hands shaking at his side.

"Perhaps I am," Dominik says, shifting his gaze to Mercy. "But I think you know I'm not."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Dominik shrugs. "Because you asked."

Mercy opens his mouth to respond when the front door slams open, Spencer tumbling haphazardly out of it onto the porch. His eyes dart to Mercy and Dominic as he stomps towards them, seizing Dominik by his shirt and hauling him to his feet. "Where the fuck is Ash?" he asks, words demanding and a bit slurred.

"I don't know," Dominik replies, not phased in the least.

"Well you better fucking find out," Spencer shouts, "Because David's drunker than a skunk and he's lighting shit on fire!"

Dominik frowns slightly. "I thought he gave up drinking freshman year."

"Yeah, well, I don't know what the fuck's his problem tonight. He's been downing shots like they're the goddamn cure to his prissy mood. And now he's lighting shit on fire which is why it's _pretty fucking important_ I find Ash. Like, ten minutes ago!" Spencer pushes Dominik back, releasing him from his hold. "Fucking forget it, I'll find him on my own." He turns, shoulders hunched, to stalk off.

"Spencer, stop," Dominik says authoritatively. "Let me come with you."

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Spencer yells back.

Dominik places an over-large hand on Mercy's shoulder and nudges him forward. "Mercurius, come with us," he says, the statement a demand rather than a request.

Spencer halts in his tracks, whirls around to glare briefly at Mercy, before he fixes his angered stare on Dominik. "Why the fuck are you asking him to come?"

"Do you know any other supers with a water based ability?" Dominik asks. When Spencer glares instead of answering, he continues, "That's what I thought. Until we locate Ash, he can help."

"I don't recall volunteering myself," Mercy interjects. "My presence will only worsen the situation. David isn't... fond of me or mine." He can't help the worry that wells up despite himself. The worry isn't just for David, but for the other drunken students who have, no doubt, stupidly gathered around to gawk. He's seen firsthand how volatile David's ability can prove to be.

"The punk's right," Spencer sneers. "David hates his family's guts."

Mercy winces, annoyed with how deep those words cut.

"David's a hot headed idiot who acts before he thinks, but he isn't outright hateful," Dominik responds dully. "That's the area you excel in, Spencer."

"Oh, fuck you Dominik. I ain't got time to beat your ass right now so you better keep your opinions to your damn self."

"Gladly," Dominik responds, baring his teeth. He treads forward then, compelling Mercy to follow suit. At least, Mercy thinks, he isn't the only person with a particular disdain for Spencer.

Spencer leads them into the house, up the stairs and really, they probably could have found David without much assistance at all. The hallway is crammed with people, ranging from belligerently excited, to too drunk to care, and lastly to those with serious, concerned expressions. Mercy spots Bentley right away, standing just inside one of the many bedrooms, face ashen as he stands there and merely _watches_.

Spencer beats Mercy to Bentley's side, grabs him roughly by the elbow and jerks him from the room. "I told you to wait outside," he seethes, speech still slightly slurred.

"But David—"

"I don't give a fuck about David's idiotic ass, I told you to do something, so go fucking do it before you get hurt."

Bentley's face contorts with rage. "I'm not the one who's a _norm_ ," he shouts, struggling against Spencer. "What right do you have to order me around?"

Mercy doesn't hear what Spencer yells in reply because he's suddenly confronted with the bright, swirling flames eating up everything in the room. David's in the epicenter of the firestorm, sitting on the only piece of furniture not currently on fire, a ratty looking couch with scorch marks. He appears despondent, listless as he sits there, arms lit up like fireworks.

"Mercurius."

Mercy blinks, eyes wide as he glances at Dominik, who's frowning at his side. "Right," he says thickly, concentrating all his energy on the matter at hand.

He strides forward, the comforting feeling of his ability thrumming through his body, coiling down his arms and completely icing them over. He stops several paces from David, who doesn't even seem to see him, and kneels down. He presses his frozen hands flat against the ruined carpet. Ice spreads out rapidly from his touch, layering the entirety of the floor before extending to the walls and the ceiling. His ice overtakes David's fire with ease, melting at the touch and turning to water, which in turn neutralizes the burning heat with a hiss of steam.

Once he's finished, he stands up from his knees, very aware that David's arms are still aflame. No matter how despondent the man, he knows better than to discard his caution so prematurely.

All has gone quiet behind him.

He ignores the sudden silence to take a step towards David. "David," he reprimands tightly, ready for the worse. "Letting your arms continue to burn so idiotically is dangerous."

David looks up, sepia eyes muddled with alcohol and incomprehension while hot flames continue to lick at his arms. "Mercy," he replies, Mercy's name a jumbled exhale on his heavy tongue.

Mercy hesitates before responding, "Yes."

David begins chortling, the noise intelligible. He lowers his head into his burning hands, though the flames do little to hurt him as they're just as much a part of him as the rest of his body. "No, no," he mumbles incoherently into his palms. "Not anymore. I ruined it, I ruined it."

Mercy knits his brows, confused as he presses another foot forward. He's standing so close to David now that if he wishes to, he can reach out and touch him. So he does just that. He covers David's hands with his own, pulling them away from his face to entangle their fingers. The frost surrounding Mercy's hands counteracts David's fire, snuffing it out gently, but effectively.

David remains passive, looking at Mercy as if he's just a figment of his imagination. But, most importantly, his arms don't relight.

"I'll handle it from here," a voice says from behind him.

Startled, Mercy jumps away from David, releases his grip on David's hands, and turns to see Ash standing behind him, frown marring his ordinarily pretty features. Not knowing what to say, feeling odd and out of place, Mercy retreats a few paces, allowing Ash to slide in and brush his slender hand across David's forehead. David relaxes immediately, slumping forward into Ash's chest.

"Gees, David," Ash murmurs at David, who's gone still against his chest, "you sure know how to ruin a party."

David mumbles something inaudible.

"Well, who wants to take this troublemaker home?" Ash asks, twisting his head to look at the people crowding the entrance to the room.

"I'll do it," Dominik volunteers, stepping into the room for the first time. "Spencer, you as well."

Spencer, who's reclining lazily up against the door's frame, as far away from Bentley as he can possibly manage, looks beyond irritated. "Fuck off, I drove myself here, I can drive myself home."

As Dominik walks past Mercy, he spares him a passing glance. "Ash, drive Spencer's car back." He glares dispassionately at Spencer. "Spencer, come help me carry David."

"Che," Spencer exhales, lumbering over to begrudgingly help Dominik. He tosses his car keys at Ash, who catches them easily, and slings one of David's arms up and over his shoulders, mirroring Dominik.

"Wait," Mercy says before he can stop himself, "What if he starts lighting things on fire again?"

Spencer glares at him, Dominik chuckles, and Ash sighs from behind him. "I neutralized his ability," Ash replies, carding a twitchy hand through his long blonde hair. "He won't be lighting anything else on fire for the rest of the night."

"I see," Mercy says, moving hastily out of their way.

"You should get going too," Ash tells Mercy as he breezes past him to trail after Spencer and Dominik.

Once they're gone, Mercy stays a minute to collect his thoughts before moving to exit the room. He finds Bentley just outside the doorway, curled up into himself, his back to the hallway wall, looking properly miserable. Mercy exhales heavily. "Come on Bentley, let's go."

There's a pregnant pause before Bentley mutters an affirmative, "Okay."


	7. Chapter 7

"Ugh, someone put me out of my misery," Bentley moans pitifully into his pillow. He's still dressed in his horribly coordinated outfit from the night before and smells pungently of alcohol. "Seriously, my head's _killing_ me."

Mercy, who has been watching Bentley squirm and grumble for the better part of thirty minutes, eyes him disinterestedly. "That's what you get for drinking in excess."

Bentley groans. "Sor _ry_. Not all of us can be as perfect as you."

Mercy rolls his eyes as he chucks a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers and a hot soda at the back of Bentley's head. Bentley squawks, fights wildly with his blankets and eventually sits up, red hair wild as he squints at Mercy, face betrayed. "That hurt," he pouts, but he downs two pills anyway, knocking them back with a gulp of warm soda. "Yuck," he grimaces as he runs a hand through his already messy hair. He yawns and grapples blindly through his heap of blankets in search of his misplaced glasses. Once found, they're shoved up on the bridge of his nose as he turns to blink sleepily at Mercy. "What time's it?"

Mercy glances at his phone. "Just after noon."

Bentley rubs at his face. "Crap." He peers lazily at Mercy, lower lip caught between his teeth. "So, um, it's later. Wanna tell me why you were sucking face with David before he went pyromaniac on that room?"

Mercy swallows, throat suddenly dry. "I was hopeful you would forget that."

Bentley snorts. "Wasn't that drunk." Then he frowns, like he's remembering something particularly unpleasant.

"Is David... always like that? When he's ah, intoxicated?" Mercy asks, deftly redirecting the conversation as he gets to his feet. He crosses the room to his drawer, where he pulls out a fresh pair of clothes.

"Uh, I'm not really sure. He, um, doesn't drink, really? Guy's got no self-control and a temper that rivals Spencer's, though he's a pretty alright guy most of the time." Bentley blinks, and then narrows his eyes. "Hey, don't go trying to change the subject!"

Mercy pulls a tight, blue-gray shirt over his head as he rotates his torso to half-grimace at Bentley. "I wasn't 'sucking face,' with David, as you so eloquently put it."

Bentley cocks an eyebrow, face revealing he believes not a word of Mercy's pathetic attempt to dodge his question. "Uh, I'm pretty sure you were doing just that."

With a sigh, Mercy shoves his pajama pants down and wiggles into a pair of loose fitting jeans. "Curiosity killed the cat," he warns, lips twitching.

"And satisfaction brought it back," Bentley returns, grinning smugly.

Mercy smiles tightly, irritated. "That was my polite way of telling you to mind your own business."

Bentley scrambles out of his bed and knocks Mercy easily in the shoulder, the gesture friendly. "Friends are supposed to pry," he informs him, sticking out his tongue and laughing loudly when all Mercy does in retaliation is glower.

"Are they?" Mercy replies dryly, unconvinced. "I suppose I should ask you about your fight with Spence, then?"

"Ow, man," Bentley exhales, laughing weakly. "That was cruel."

Watching the way Bentley's shoulders droop in dejection tugs at Mercy's reluctant heartstrings. "Sorry," he apologizes immediately. "That was out of line."

Bentley shakes his head. "No, no, you're right... um, if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to..."

Mercy pauses, conflicted. "It isn't that I wish not to tell you," he begins. "It's rather... you're better off not knowing." He shrugs. "It's that sort of thing."

Bentley worries at his lower lip, expression wilting. "What, worried I'm going to go running to Eric to tell him about your sordid affair with his darling baby brother?" he asks, words surprisingly bitter.

Mercy rounds to look at him, softly surprised. "First off," he says, marginally nettled, "David and I aren't having an _affair_. Secondly," he hesitates, "Who you saw wasn't David."

There's a lengthy pause wherein Bentley simply stares. "Seriously, Mercy?" he says, obviously offended. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Mercy exhales, feeling a migraine coming on. "I've hardly given your intelligence any thought at all," he retorts. "It's your choice whether or not you believe me. I'm hardly going to waste my time trying to convince you."

"It's not that I don't believe you..." Bentley mumbles, scowling.

"No?"

"But, who else could it have been?"

"A super with the ability to mimic another's appearance," Mercy replies after a lengthy internal debate, "And a penchant for making my life increasingly difficult."

Bentley gapes. "Wha—?"

"Bentley, please," Mercy very nearly pleads. "No more questions. The answers will only bring you trouble, undoubtedly."

"How do you expect me not to ask questions after you say something like that?" he bristles, large off-olive eyes wide with curiosity.

Mercy merely levels him with a _look_. "Take a shower," he orders instead of answering. "You smell."

"I don't smell," Bentley protests as he brings his shirt to his nose to take a whiff. His face goes suspiciously green. "Okay, you're right. Shower it is." Laughing, he hops off his bed and pads into their small, shared restroom.

Mercy half-smiles at that, snags his backpack from his bedside, and slings it up over his shoulder. "I'll be at the library," he calls loudly, hoping Bentley will hear him over the rushing water.

There's a loud bang, the sound of feet slamming wetly against tile, and then the door flies open, revealing Bentley with a towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, hair a floppy, wet mess. "Wait!" he shouts. "I—uh, let me come with you?"

That causes Mercy to pause. "You want to?"

"Um, well, I need to ... study. Yes, study. I have a, uh, a test, Monday," he pauses, smiling sheepishly. "Maybe."

Mercy hums thoughtfully. "Alright," he agrees. "Just hurry up. I've a test to study for as well." He grins slyly as he adds, "Maybe."

Bentley turns a startling shade of red, slams the door shut, and by the following bang, obviously trips over his own feet. Mercy chuckles to himself, drops his backpack to the floor and sits down to wait. Bentley emerges ten minutes later smelling like coconut, dressed in his usual jeans and dorky t-shirt. He buzzes around the room, gathering random textbooks and shoving them into his backpack as he declares, "Okay, ready. Let's go!"

Unable to resist, Mercy teases lightly, "Spencer may not even be working this afternoon."

"Uh, um, _I know that_ ," Bentley says, face burning hot with embarrassment. Then, in revenge, adds, "Spencer might not be working, but David could be."

Mercy's steps falter. "Perhaps," he says slowly, hating how his own face does a complicated dance between anticipation and anxiety. "It can't be helped."

"Last night, what you did... that was, um, cool," Bentley says almost shyly, beaming at Mercy from where he's fallen in step beside him.

Mercy shrugs. "It was the right thing to do."

"Yeah, but you didn't _have_ to do it. Especially after David was a right dick to you."

"There are a countless things I don't _have_ to do," he replies sharply, "but that doesn't mean I shouldn't do them."

"I know, just... you're, um, you're a really good guy, Mercy," Bentley says. "I," he pauses, face going red again. "I wish other people could see that."

Mercy glances at Bentley, surprised but pleasantly pleased. "... Thank you," he says, warmth blooming in his chest. "It's ... enough that you think so."

Bentley grins goofily. "Awesome."

However, that grin is short lived. As soon as they walk through the library's front entrance, his eyes go straight to the circulation desk and he immediately shrinks into Mercy's side. Behind the circulation counter sits Spencer, legs crossed and propped up on a desk, arms resting behind his head as he leans back, eyes closed. He cracks them open the moment the glass door slides shut behind Mercy and Bentley. His expression sours instantly and he glares openly at Bentley, face rippling with unsuppressed rage.

"Crap, he's _pissed_ ," Bentley says in a harsh whisper, fretting unnecessarily.

"Ignore him," Mercy tells him as they walk past the circulation desk.

"But—"

Mercy gives Bentley a hard shove towards the stairs and he stumbles unwillingly forward, sneaking a peek over his shoulder at Spencer, who's begun to staple things violently. "Can't I just—"

"No."

Bentley sighs miserably. "But, he—"

"Not now, Bentley. We're here to study, not to enable your toxic relationship with Spencer."

"It's not _toxic_ ," he protests.

Mercy snorts. "It's definitely not healthy."

Bentley stews. "What would you know about healthy relationships?" Mercy grits his teeth, says nothing in reply, and Bentley realizes his mistake at once. "Crap, Mercy, I didn't mean to—um, man, I ... I'm sorry."

Mercy sighs. "It's okay," he replies, climbing up the last step and making for the nearest desk. "I apologize as well. Your relationship with Spencer is none of my business."

Bentley drops down into the seat opposite of Mercy. "Let's just... not talk about it."

Mercy nods, digs through his backpack, and pulls out his study material. He thumbs through his history textbook until he comes to the chapter he's supposed to read over the weekend, and starts in on the text. Bentley shuffles across the table, fidgeting with his own textbooks miserably. Several minutes pass before the suspicious sound of crinkling plastic fills the air.

Mercy looks up, finds Bentley fighting to get a chip bag open, and scowls. "You shouldn't eat in a library," he admonishes.

Bentley stops. "I shouldn't even _be_ in a library," he whines in reply. "Plus, I'm _hungry_."

"You were the one who wanted to come," Mercy reminds him, irritated beyond measure.

"Yeah, well ...," he sighs dramatically. "I'm, uh, kinda crappy at studying."

"Then leave."

"But I'm _already here_."

Mercy rolls his eyes, hand twitching. "Then stop complaining. It's grating my nerves."

Bentley glares and, in protest, shoves a large handful of chips into his mouth. He chews obnoxiously, purposefully crinkling the bag. His eyes widen to saucers suddenly and he begins choking, hacking in a particularly horrifying fashion.

Mercy's face remains passive, expression put upon. "Are you done?"

Bentley continues to cough and, finally, gets out, "I-Incoming!"

Mercy screws up his face in confusion. "Incoming?"

A hand lands warmly on his right shoulder, startling him. When he glances up, he finds himself staring into David's familiar tawny eyes. They're hesitant, soft around the edges, but there's no malice hiding there. Mercy frowns, perplexed as his heart picks up in tempo. They continue to stare at one another awkwardly. "Yes?" he asks briskly once he grows tired of the continuing silence. His eyes narrow with suspicion.

David side-eyes Bentley. "Buzz," he says, voice heavy with command. "Leave us for a minute."

"Uh," Bentley manages, looking to Mercy for approval.

Mercy shoos Bentley away with the wave of his hand. "It's okay," he replies softly, tone subdued.

With an obvious swallow, Bentley snatches up his backpack. "I'll, um, see you later Mercy," he says, glancing nervously at David before scampering off.

David removes his hand from Mercy's shoulder, causing the spot it previously occupied feel uncomfortably cold. Mercy rolls his shoulders irritably, trying in vain to dispel the feeling. "If you've something to say, make it quick. I've hardly the time to sit idly by and endure your insults."

By now, David has come to sit across from Mercy. He's frowning, face screwed up with a myriad of emotions. He looks, all at once, irritated, guilty, and uncertain. "I'm not here to insult you," he says after a pause, frown slipping into a grimace.

"How fortunate for me," Mercy retorts dryly.

David's jaw flexes as his hands curl into fists on the table top. "Thank you," he grounds out, forcing his eyes anywhere but Mercy's face. "For...," he sighs. "You didn't have to help. You _shouldn't_ have helped, not after I ...," he trails off, glancing guiltily at Mercy. "Not after my behavior."

Mercy's shocked into silence. Of all the things he'd been expecting, it wasn't this. From his short acquaintance with David, he'd gathered he was a proud person, one who rarely found fault with his own behavior. But, here he is, showing humility. It really shouldn't be as mind numbingly attractive as it is. Mercy regards him coolly, face giving nothing away as he simply shrugs. "It's what anyone would have done."

David's grimace tightens. "That's the thing," he says, at last looking Mercy directly in the eye. "It's _not_ what anyone would have done."

Mercy tears his eyes away from David's. "No?"

David gives a little frustrated sigh as he runs a hand through his buzzed hair, the movement antsy. "I don't understand you," he admits, seeming displeased with himself. "You don't make sense. You shouldn't..."

"I shouldn't, what?" Mercy asks plaintively. "Be decent? Be nothing at all like the man who couldn't be bothered to look at me twice and the brother who tormented me at every opportunity? I'm not a complicated person, Holloway. I'm the product of witnessing countless atrocities up close and deciding I wanted nothing to do with them. Now, if you'll excuse me," he says quickly, getting to his feet, the lump in his throat so painful he almost chokes on it.

David reacts before Mercy can escape, hand whipping out to enclose around his burned forearm. "Wait," he says, grip firm. "Shit, just— _wait_."

Mercy flinches at the pressure of the contact.

David, seeming to realize he's causing Mercy pain, loosens his hold. He stares, face complicated as he takes in, for the first time, Mercy's injury. He frowns, thumb brushing across the cotton texture of the gauze. "What happened," he demands, words holding an angry, protective edge.

Confusion flutters in Mercy's chest. He's not sure what to make of David's sudden change in demeanor, in his return to his former attitude towards him. He doesn't say anything at first, the words stuck in his throat. His silence, however, seems to be answer enough.

David drops Mercy's arm immediately, face twisting in horror. "It was me, wasn't it?" he says forcefully, looking suddenly ill.

Mercy rubs absently at his arm, feelings at war within him. "It was an accident," he says neutrally, heart thumping against his ribs with alarming momentum.

"Shit," David exhales shakily, leaning against the table for support, hand pressed flat against its surface.

Mercy frowns. "I didn't report it," he tells him firmly.

Startled rage flits across David's face. "That's— _That's_ what you think I'm upset about?"

"Is it not?"

"No, no," he says rapidly, " _Of course_ it's not. _Shit_." David drags a hand down the front of his face, looking properly miserable. "I...," he glances at Mercy's forearm, lips thinning into a gloomy scowl. "For what it's worth, I'm ... sorry. I know that's not enough, but shit, I really _am_."

"It's ... okay," Mercy replies, stunned.

"It's not," David argues, strong brows drawn downward as he continues staring at Mercy as if he's somehow ruined him, which is _ridiculous_. And terribly vexing.

"Holding a grudge is a lesser man's folly," Mercy replies easily, with a shrug. "Your apology is more than enough recompense."

David inclines his head slightly, face conflicted and pinched with words unspoken.

Awkward silence stretches on between the two of them.

"Yes, well," Mercy clears his throat. "I should get back to studying."

David looks disappointed for a moment before the emotion is wiped smoothly from his face. He sighs, smiles ruefully, and tilts his head to the right, scanning the bookshelves. "Yeah," he agrees clumsily. "I suppose you should."

Neither moves.

There's a small part of Mercy that still hopes he can be friends with David. It's that same small part of himself that thinks David maddeningly handsome, wishes for more, wants—but it's silly, to be thinking such things. David only feels guilty, that's all. It's foolish to hope that there's more to David's hesitance, to indulge his own desire for something more. He sighs, carding a hand through his hair tiredly. He peers up at David, to find he's still staring at him with an intense focus.

David hesitates. "That girl," he begins, "At the party. Who is she to you?"

Mercy stiffens, freezing up. The memory of Annie's transformation aches in his mind like a fresh wound, taunting him with a false memory that will never become a reality. "Annie," he replies, steel in his voice. "She's only a classmate."

David frowns, thoughtful. "That's all?" he asks, oddly intent.

"That's all," Mercy confirms.

"She was all over you," David states, eyes dark.

Mercy blinks. "Ah," he falters. "She was ... drunk."

"Was she?" David replies, gaze sharpening.

"She was," he persists.

"Then why were you afraid of her?" David asks, but Mercy sees it for what it is; an accusation. "Even after I...," David scowls, "Even after I was an ass to you, you still grabbed my hand. What about her was more terrifying than the right bastard I was being?"

Mercy glares. "I wasn't afraid."

David doesn't say anything for several moments, but his gaze remains locked on Mercy. "Was she threatening you?"

"No," Mercy responds too quickly, words vehement.

David leans his hip up against the table, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"No," Mercy says through gritted teeth, "I'm not."

He sighs, seeming to give up. "You're stubborn."

"Back to insults so soon?" Mercy snaps, momentarily losing ahold of his composure.

David shakes his head. "Just an observation." He cracks his neck and glares around the corner. "You can stop hiding now, Buzz," he says loudly, tone aggravated.

Mercy turns just in time to see Bentley's meander out from behind one of the bookshelves, expression sheepish.

David sighs again and glances at Mercy, an indiscernible expression accenting his handsome features. "See you around, Mercy," he says casually, as if their entire conversation hadn't just transpired. He turns to address Bentley next. "Don't worry about Spencer, kid. He'll come around."

"Uh," Bentley says. "Yeah, um, thanks."

David ruffles Bentley's hair, gives Mercy one last, unreadable look, and then turns by his heel to saunter off. "Later," he calls over his shoulder before shoving his hands in his pockets.

Bentley looks to Mercy expectantly. "So, um," he starts. "Who's Annie?"

Mercy scowls. "Not now, Bentley."

"Alright, alright. But seriously, now that you're done staring woefully into David's eyes, can we get lunch? I'm so damn hungry."

Mercy glares. "We weren't—"

Bentley pushes Mercy's face away. "Yeah, yeah. Food, now. Come _on_ ," he whines. "Get your crap and let's go."

Mercy bites back a retort. "Fine," he snaps.

Bentley grins, the cheeky brat.


	8. Chapter 8

Sunday morning greets Mercy with a pounding headache and the shrill sound of Bentley's phone ringing. He props himself up to glare at the offending piece of technology, still half asleep and beyond irritated. Bentley's sprawled out on his bed, mouth open wide as he inhales and exhales—totally and completely oblivious to the noise. "Bentley," Mercy says through a stifled a yawn, "your phone's ringing." Bentley doesn't move. "Bentley!" Mercy calls again, this time louder. Still no response. Thankfully, the phone goes silent, allowing Mercy to roll over with a disgruntled sigh. And, really, who would be calling at—he strains his eyes to peer at the digital clock on his nightstand—nine in the morning?

It's not two seconds later that the phone begins shrieking again, the noise like nails on a chalkboard.

Someone impatient, then.

When Bentley doesn't stir, Mercy throws his covers off himself, stalks across the room, and shakes Bentley a little harsher than necessary. "Bentley," he grumbles, " _phone_."

" _Uwa_ _—_?" Bentley mumbles, blinking bleary eyed up at him. " _Nooooo_ , five more minutes, ugh, Mercy, _go away_." He rolls over, further cocooning himself in his blankets.

Mercy scowls, grabs Bentley's phone from his nightstand, switches it to silent, and half-stumbles back to his bed, far too annoyed for so early in the morning. He slides back underneath his covers, relishes in the warmth, and tries in vain to fall back asleep. He's almost managed just that when there's a loud, angry pounding on their door.

"Buzz, I know you're fucking in there," Spencer's familiar cadence rings out, harsh and raised to an earsplitting octave. "Answer your damn phone!"

Mercy exhales, murder on the mind. If he didn't already dislike Spencer, this sure as hell would have sealed the deal. If he'd the energy, he would roll back over and glared Bentley into wakefulness. That proves not to be necessary as, a few moments later, he hears signs of life from his stirring roommate.

"Spencer?" Bentley murmurs incoherently, feet shuffling noisily against the coarse carpet as he meanders towards the door.

"Buzz, I swear to all that is fucking holy if you don't open this door right now I'm going to—"

The door opens with a silent whoosh. "Going to what?" Bentley demands tiredly. "Spencer, it's nine in the morn— _mmph!_ _—_ " Thud. Slam. "—S-Spencer, I d-don't think— _mmph_ _—_ Spencer, _seriously!_ _—_ "

Untoward sounds fill the room. They're suspicious in origin and Mercy really, _really_ doesn't want to be subjected to such obscene things before he's had his morning dose of caffeine. He sits up in his bed, tired eyes darting to the doorway. He finds that Spencer has pinned Bentley to the door and is trying to, quite enthusiastically, devour his face. _Wonderful_.

Mercy clears his throat.

Bentley goes red and tries—unsuccessfully—to push Spencer away.

Spencer, the bastard, just growls into Bentley's mouth and continues carrying on like he doesn't have an audience.

"I didn't know you were into exhibitionism, Ross," Mercy says, reasonably irked.

That, at least, gets Spencer's attention. He pulls away from Bentley with a jerk and turns a glare on Mercy, clearly vexed. "Shut the fuck up, Doyle. This doesn't involve you."

"Obviously," Mercy retorts. "You're only mauling my roommate in our shared living space. But please, do continue."

Spencer's lips rear back into a snarl as he thrusts a threatening foot forward. Bentley stumbles after him and encircles his arms around Spencer's torso to halt his movement. " _Crap_ _—_ Spencer, stop! Let's, um," he licks his lips self-consciously. "Let's go somewhere else, okay?"

Spencer continues to glare at Mercy as if he's no better than the dirt beneath his shoe. Mercy returns the glare with an expressionless stare of his own. It's then that Bentley breaks away from Spencer, rushes to his dresser and pulls out the first t-shirt he sees. He struggles to get the shirt up and over his head as he bunny hops into a pair of sweats, snatching up his glasses and grinning sheepishly at Mercy. "I'll—uh, I'll be back later."

Mercy yawns and nods absently. "Alright." Then, as an afterthought, he says, "Text me."

With a curt nod of his own, Bentley pushes Spencer's bulk out of the door, whispering harsh words after him. The door shuts behind them with a slam.

Mercy sighs, lays back down, and stares morosely at the ceiling. He's back asleep between one blink and the next.

* * *

When Mercy next wakes, his headache has dulled somewhat. However, the sun's painfully bright rays have started to stream in through the only window, landing exactly where his head lay. He squints into the assaulting light and turns to hide his face in his pillow. He peeks at the clock directly to his right and it informs him it's just past one in the afternoon. Which, ugh. He sits up, runs a hand through his tangled hair, and slides his feet off the edge of his bed. He stands up, yawns, and goes about his morning routine with ease. He's ready to leave in less than thirty minutes, freshly showered and dressed accordingly.

He has one unread text form Bentley. _Won't be back tonight. Don't worry!_ It reads. Mercy snorts, he'd expected as much. Not giving the text another thought, Mercy slips his phone into this back pocket, exits the dorm, and starts from the campus coffee house.

Campus is deserted but since it's Sunday that really isn't all that unusual. It merely means there are less people to gawk at him, so Mercy doesn't mind at all. Still, the heat is stifling as ever and, as he nears the coffee house, sweat begins to line his brow. He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the excess moisture just as he enters the building. He appreciates the onslaught of cool air for a brief moment and then heads straight to the register, where he orders the Coffee of the Day. After he gives his name to the shy cashier, he moves to stand at the edge of the counter, waiting diligently for his order to be filled.

He's staring so intently off into space that he doesn't realize when someone comes to stand next to him. "You should know," Dominik drawls, making his presence known, "the Coffee of the Day tastes like muddy water." He glances down then, grin tugging upwards at the corners of his mouth as his too-long, shaggy bangs obscure his eyes.

"Perhaps I like muddy water," Mercy responds, acknowledging Dominik with an peevish glower.

A soft chuckle. "Do you now?"

"Not really," he says, immediately irritated that those weren't the words he meant to say. He frowns. "What are you doing here?"

Dominik leans back against the counter. "Same as you, I suspect."

"Know my motives now, do you?"

"Oh? You've an alternative motive for buying that dreadful coffee?" Dominik asks, obviously pleased with himself.

Mercy's frown deepens as he side-glares at Dominik. "I don't."

"Coffee of the Day for Mercy!" the soft spoken barista calls, sliding his coffee across the counter with the apathy of a slow day.

Before Mercy can snatch his coffee and make his escape, Dominik reaches around him, swipes it, and turns to stroll towards a nearby table, where another coffee is already waiting. Mercy chases after him with annoyed, measured footfalls.

"Sit," Dominik says, "I could use the company."

Mercy eyes him distrustfully. "I'd rather not."

Dominik laughs faintly. "Come now, Mercurius. You don't mean that."

"I really do," he grumbles in response, but he drops into the seat opposite Dominik despite his protesting.

Dominik's lips quirk up in slight amusement, but he doesn't speak further on the subject. Instead, he brings his own coffee to his lips, eying Mercy curiously. "Hmmm."

Mercy tastes his coffee and instantly grimaces. The fact that Dominik was right about the awful taste prompts him to take another sip just to spite him. As he sets his coffee cup down, he levels a questioning gaze on said man, who has since relaxed and is staring off towards the establishment's entrance.

"Since you've forced me to indulge you with my company," Mercy begins after a beat, "the least you can do is tell me when, and under what circumstances, you met Cerberus." He reclines into his chair, fingers wrapped loosely around his styrofoam cup as he adds, "This time, something less vague than _a long time ago_."

Dominik's eyebrows rise at that. "Now is neither the time nor place," he says, gaze faraway but not patronizing. "Though, I've no doubt it'll be one you hear sooner rather than later."

"You're being frustratingly cryptic," Mercy informs him, dutifully miffed. "I gather that's intentional?"

Dominik takes a sip of his coffee, artfully hiding his smirk in its rim. "Perhaps," he drawls as he pulls the cup away from his lips to sets it back down on the table.

"Typical," Mercy returns, expression displeased as he swallows more of his own dreadful coffee.

"Typical, huh," Dominik echoes lazily. "I wasn't aware you were such an expert on the finer points of my personality."

"I never claimed to be," Mercy snaps. "Though, I can't say I'm surprised to discover you're the cagey type."

Dominik hums. "And you aren't?"

Mercy's glare holds no heat. "We all have our secrets."

That makes Dominik chuckle. "No truer words have ever been spoken." He leans forward then, features going from relaxed to abruptly serious. He appears intensely thoughtful. "Haven't you ever wondered why you have such fear of Cerberus? Why you only have horrible memories of him? Why you actively avoid him and, to a greater extent, your father? Doesn't it strike you as _strange?_ "

He hasn't and it doesn't.

Mercy frowns, his thoughts shifting, feeling wrong and oddly out of place. "I haven't," he replies, recalling too late that he cannot lie to Dominik. "That's how it's always been. Why would I wonder about things I can never hope to change?"

Cerberus hates him, terrifies him. Why would he ever wonder about his motives? His brother's in possession of a cold heart; one molded so by their father. Mercy would likely only drive himself crazy were he to try and make sense of his senseless cruelty.

"And your father?" Dominik continues to prod. "Does he not want you to carry on the family business?"

"My father stopped speaking to me the day my ability manifested," Mercy says curtly, words too-quick and painful. "He no longer had any use for me." It had hurt, to be rejected so by his father. That look of utter disappointment for something he couldn't change had shaken him to his core. He wasn't worthy in his father's eyes, which suited him quite nicely later on. He hardly wants to be like a man who only uses his ability to force people into doing despicable things against their will.

His father had seen on that day what Mercy wouldn't realize for some years—that he didn't, and would never, have the heart for cruelty.

"And you're sure that's the reason?" Dominik presses gently, fingers circling the rim of his coffee cup methodically.

Mercy's face twists as he fights back a flinch. "What other reason could there be? What could a frost manipulator ever hope to do for his underground crime syndicate?"

Dominik seems to consider that, but quickly switches direction. "Your father's power, it doesn't work on you and Cerberus, correct?"

"How do you—?" Mercy starts, taken aback only marginally. He shakes his head. "No, never mind, I don't need to know." He waves his hand with a sigh, looking anywhere but Dominik's face as he lets the words fall out of his mouth like heavy lead. "Yes, that's correct. He's unable to verbally manipulate those related to him by blood. What's your point?"

Though he isn't looking at Dominik, he can feel the moment he turns his gaze on him, sharp and hawk like. "When was the last time you spoke to your father?" he asks, tone deceptively light.

"What?"

"Richard Doyle," Dominik clarifies unnecessarily. "When was the last time you spoke with him?"

"I don't recall," he says slowly, perplexed. His answer unnerves even himself.

"I see," Dominik replies, though something behind Mercy's head catches his eye and his serious demeanor dissipates instantaneously. "David, you're late," he greets amicably, staring past Mercy with a fond, relaxed grin.

Mercy stiffens, but he doesn't bother turning around.

There's several seconds of tense silence. "Ah, yeah, sorry about that. Spencer was causing a ruckus at the apartment..," he trails off for a moment and then continues, "I didn't know you and Mercy were acquaintances."

Dominik motions for David to take the seat next to Mercy. "We spoke for the first time Friday," he replies offhandedly.

As David takes the seat Dominik indicated, his lips set into a firm, troubled frown. "Oh, yeah?" His eyes slide to hover momentarily on Mercy. "He tell you about his ability yet?"

Mercy nods stiffly. "He was quite forthcoming about it."

"Was he," David says, something appearing to nag at him.

"Yes," Mercy says, feeling wretchedly awkward. Although David apologized to him, he still doesn't know what to expect from him. An apology does not a friendship make. "I'll go. You two obviously had a previous engagement."

As he goes to stand, David's hand reaches out to grip his upper forearm gently. "Wait. You don't have to leave," he says, glancing back at Dominik. "Right, Dominik?"

Dominik hums. "By all means, stay. That is, if you can stand this idiot." He laughs outright when David glares sharply at him.

"Well, if you insist." Mercy lowers himself back down into his seat, mourning silently the sudden loss of David's heat against his skin.

"I do," Dominik says, tone deep and almost flirty. "You're easy to talk to. Don't you agree, David?" He glances at David, the glint in his eyes foreign.

David appears ready to murder Dominik with the force of his glare alone.

Dominik chuckles. "My mistake." He stands suddenly, takes two steps forward and twists by his heel, moving to stand directly behind Mercy's chair. He clamps his over-large hand down on Mercy's right shoulder and massages his thumb in slow, ginger circles at the base of his neck.

Mercy isn't impressed. "What are you doing?" he asks, bored and slightly nettled.

Dominik leans down. "You looked tense," he husks into his ear, making Mercy grimace.

"I'm not," Mercy replies blandly, reaching up to forcibly brush Dominik's hand from his shoulder. As he does so, he glimpses David's vexed expression, the way his fingers have begun to grip the table so tightly his knuckles are turning white under the strain. Their eyes meet and David looks, all at once, embarrassed; red tinges his cheeks and he looks away, frowning.

From behind him, Dominik laughs throatily. "Well then, I'll be heading out."

"What?" David responds automatically. " _You_ were the one that forced me to come and have coffee with you."

"Yeah, well," Dominik shrugs, side-stepping to clap David on the shoulder, "I just remembered I've something more important to do."

David leans back, but he's grinning slightly, not looking at all as irritated as he had just moments before. "That makes you sound like an asshole."

"So honest," Dominik returns in jest.

David smiles easily. "Your fault."

Dominik merely grins at that and turns with the shake of his head. The minute he exits the coffee house, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and lights one up. He waves over his shoulder one last time before strolling off, shoulders loose and stature easygoing.

The moment Mercy shifts his gaze back to David, he's confronted by the fond, soft look in his eye. It's the same laughing, kind gaze David had looked at him with the day they quite literally bumped into one another. Without his consent, his cheeks warm slightly. It's absurd, to let his feelings overwhelm him in such an unseemly way. "Is there something on my face?" he asks, fighting back the rogue fluttering in his chest.

David smirks. "Nah."

"I see," Mercy says quietly.

"Don't leave," David orders as he flies from his seat, sweeping across the front of the coffee house as he makes his way to the register.

Mercy stares after him with a frown. Part of him wishes to leave while David's back is turned, but that would be cowardly and well, he simply can't bring himself to do it. A minute later, David walks back over, coffee in hand and what looks to be two pastries. He sets one down in front of Mercy, keeps the other, and reclaims his seat.

"What's this?" Mercy asks slowly, gesturing to what looks to be some sort of cupcake.

David laughs. "An apology cupcake."

Mercy stares at it dubiously. "An apology cupcake?"

"It's chocolate," David says, grinning handsomely.

Mercy continues to frown at it. "I dislike sweets."

David pauses mid-bite into his own chocolate-flavored cupcake. He swallows quickly. "Really?" he asks, sounding more curious than surprised. "That's a shame." He reaches for it, but Mercy snatches it up before he can grab it.

"I'll eat it," he tells David seriously, feeling his cheek heat up once more. He brings the cupcake to his lips hastily and bites into it. The texture is spongy, but the taste isn't overly sweet. He eats the rest of the cupcake in two quick bites, crumbles the remaining wrapping paper into a ball, and drops it into his now empty coffee cup.

When he finally chances a glance at David, he looks like he's barely holding back an amused smile. "You didn't have to eat it, you know."

"How else would you know you were forgiven?" Mercy says loftily, his levity surprising even himself.

David at least, appears pleased. "What's your major?" he asks after a while, the question friendly, if oddly timed.

Mercy blinks. "History."

"You seem the type."

"Do I?"

"Mmhm," David hums through a full mouth. He swallows. "Probably want to be a professor too, I bet."

Mercy pauses. "Should it surprise me that you know that?"

"I was right?" he questions, not quite able to quell his excitement.

"Seems so," Mercy says, lips twitching. He wants to smile, he realizes. It's a gentle feeling, warm and just barely there where it simmers in his chest. Happiness, he supposes; light, foreign, but not unwelcome. "What about you?"

"Criminal Justice," he answers. "Though, I'm sure everyone's aware of that."

It comes back to Mercy then, that David is still a Holloway. No matter how close they get, no manner of friendship they might foster, they will never be openly welcomed by the public without suspicion. It's a crushing thought. "Like your brother."

"Like my brother," David repeats, shrugging. "Or something."

Mercy regards him for a moment. "You don't want to join the Supercorps." It's a statement, not a question.

"Your family isn't the only one with certain expectations," he says, the comment meant to be flippant but coming across as anything but.

"I'd tell you to do what you wish despite what they want," Mercy says, "but that would be quite hypocritical of me."

"Yeah?"

Mercy sighs, tangling a hand in his hair. "No one tells my father no. Not even his own son." He smiles painfully. "Often, the words we want most to say are the hardest to utter. Fear. Rejection. Isn't it natural to feel those things?"

"Sure," David agrees, something indiscernible flashing across his face. "It's natural. But isn't it depressing to always think that way?" He look genuinely worried as his brows crease and his lips thin.

"I prefer to think of it as being realistic," he admits. "If you always expect things to go wrong, it hurts less when, eventually, they do."

David's full on frowning now. "Your life doesn't have to be like that," he argues, "Not if you don't want it to be."

"My name is a curse, David," he responds frankly. "I will never be a person other's look to with admiration, or smile kindly at when I pass by."

David's hands curl into fists at his side. "You can see the future then, can you? See it in some pretty crystal ball?" he asks, brown eyes bright with intent, seeming to see what others have willfully ignored in the past.

Mercy stares witheringly. "Of course I can't. That's ridiculous."

David sighs, but a gentle smile transforms his face not a moment later. "Then it doesn't have to be that way. You know, I'm not the smartest guy, but I've always believed we make our own reality. Happiness is a state of mind," he shrugs, face flushing with delayed shyness, "Or something."

"That's awfully idealistic," Mercy accuses, but there's no bite to his tone. He envies David for his way of thinking. His own thoughts are like a plague on his mind, always eating away at every happy moment he allows himself indulgence in. There's that ever present whisper saying he doesn't _deserve_ happiness; that he'll never be allowed it no matter how hard he might try to obtain it.

It drives him into the deepest pits of despair even on his best of days.

"Yeah, well, it's worked out well for me so far," David says, looking a bit put off.

Mercy's heart sinks into his stomach. "I should go," he says very quietly.

"Why do you always shut down like that?" David questions, frustration etched into his pinched brows.

Mercy stands. "Have a good day, David," he says firmly, twisting by his heel to stalk off quickly.

David's hot on his heels in the next instant but he doesn't harshly grab him, like Mercy expects. Instead, he falls into step beside him, towering over him with a heavy, concerned presence. He doesn't say anything, which not only unnerves Mercy, but serves to irritate him for reasons he's not yet ready to evaluate. "Stop following me," he demands.

"Nope," David says. "Not until you stop being difficult."

"You're insufferable," Mercy says as he hastens his pace.

David laughs. "I aim to please."

"Your aim is a bit off," Mercy returns tightly.

"You know, you're not the first person who's told me that," David says slyly, steps quickening as he cuts in front of Mercy, facing forwards and walking backwards, grinning like a right fool.

Mercy halts, crosses his arms, and glowers at David.

David stops as well. "Done running away?"

"I'm not _running away_ ," he hisses in return.

"Could've fooled me."

"Seeing as you're an idiot, that wouldn't be very hard to do," Mercy says, stepping calmly around David.

"Now you're just being hurtful," David says from behind Mercy, but his tone suggests he isn't hurt at all.

"I'm being _'difficult'_ , remember?"

David's laughing again. "Touché."

Mercy says nothing, relieved his dorm's nearby. However, the way things are going, he won't be surprised if he has to slam his door in David's face. He's nothing if not persistent.

"Come on, Mercy. The silent treatment is unbecoming of a college age man," David teases.

"Stalking is also unbecoming," Mercy replies haughtily, rounding the last corner to his dorm. His feet slap against the cobblestones as he speeds up; he hears David do the same from behind him.

Which is why, when he halts suddenly, David crashes into his back. "Woah, what's wrong?"

What's wrong is that Annie's posted up outside his dorm, dressed scantily and looking positively delighted as her eyes land on them. Before he can retreat, run, do _something_ , she's all but skipping towards them like an elated school girl.

"You two are already friends again?" she coos, stopping a short distance in front of them. "How _boring_."


	9. Chapter 9

Before Mercy can regain the presence of mind to respond, David steps out in front of him protectively. He's almost insulted, if grudgingly flattered. "What business is it to you?" David queries coldly, sliding his feet nosily against the slick cobblestone to further ground himself.

Annie smiles, pretty pink lips curving upwards devilishly. She regards David with light amusement, chestnut eyes gleaming. "If I told you," she begins playfully, "that wouldn't be any fun, now would it?" She twirls a lock of her hair around her left index finger, contemplation set in the furrow of her brows. "I'm rather disappointed in you, Mercy. David Holloway, really, it's so _cliché_ it almost hurts." She laughs, the sound of it cruel. "Though," she continues, sauntering three steps closer to David, "he _is_ handsome, if a bit empty-headed."

"Annie," Mercy says quickly, precisely, before David can interject. "What are you doing here?"

She chuckles at that. "What do you think? I'm here to see _you_." She looks past David, eyes only for Mercy. "We didn't get to finish our conversation last time. A pity, really."

Mercy places a hand on David's shoulder as he moves around him to face Annie. "I've nothing to discuss with you," he says neutrally. "Now isn't a good time."

Annie's eyes sharpen. " _Oh_ ," she exhales lewdly. "Did I interrupt something?" She smirks, leaning in close to whispers loud enough for David to hear, "That eager for a tumble in between the sheets?"

Mercy's face flushes as he shoves her away violently. "Leave," he orders, refusing to meet David's eyes.

David, far calmer than Mercy anticipated he'd be, merely states, "You ought to listen to him."

Annie tilts her head to the side, glances at David, and pivots on her heel, striding obtrusively into his personal space. "I ought to, huh," she purrs, dragging her hand roughly along the curve of his jaw, her other hand slithering down the front of his chest, fingers knotting expertly into the fabric of his shirt.

David's mood alters swiftly—goes from calm and composed to angry and annoyed with alarming promptitude. He grips Annie's wrists excruciatingly tight—if her responding flinch is anything to go by—and extracts her hand from his shirt, jerking her harshly away from him with little effort.

Annie laughs loudly as she's manhandled. "Well, aren't you just the big, strong man?" she goads as she leers at Mercy, eyes dancing. "I can see why you like him, Mercy. I'm _trembling_ with desire," she trails off, sweet demeanor executed flawlessly.

"Get lost," David demands, moving swiftly to force her wrist behind her back; he holds her there for two breaths before finally releasing her with a hard shove.

Annie rocks on her feet, absently rubbing at her wrist while her smile remains. "So brutal," she cries, making a mockery of every female stereotype. "Do you treat all women this way, or am I just special?"

David narrows his eyes, pearly whites barred as he says, "You're a special case."

Mercy instinctively encloses a hand around David's wrist, self-conscious as he moves to lace their fingers together. He relaxes, at once comforted by the way David solidifies the lovers handhold with a gentle squeeze of his own. "Enough," he tells David gently, observing Annie with a disquieting gaze.

"Ugh," Annie groans. "You two are sickening. Say Mercy," she prattles on cheerfully, "let me borrow your phone and you two can be on your merry little way." She holds out her hand expectantly. "I merely need to call a ride, don't fret."

"You can use mine," David interrupts, stone-faced.

"No thank you," Annie replies briskly.

"I _insist_."

Annie purses her lips together, eyes thinning to slits. "You would. But, I'm afraid I'm going to have to _insist_ on using Mercy's," she asserts, punctuating her stubbornness by blinking purposefully in Mercy's direction.

The moment David opens his mouth to retort, Mercy rubs his thumb against David's hand in silent reprimand. "Alright," Mercy agrees in his stead, skillfully hiding his own unease. He removes his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and holds it out towards Annie.

She takes it, smiling contently as if she's just won some sort of well fought for prize. "I do thank you," she sings songs, slender fingers working at Mercy's phone with disconcerting familiarity. She holds it to her ear and grins sharply, pleasure outlining her features. "Oh _oops_ ," she giggles, "I must have dialed the wrong number." She pulls the phone away from her face, doesn't bother glancing at it, and stares straight into Mercy's eyes as she says, "Oh, _what do you know_ , I must have accidentally phoned your brother." She returns to phone to her ear gleefully. "Hello, Cerberus, Mercy has told me _so much_ about you—"

Mercy reacts without thought. He whips forward to wrench the phone from Annie's hands, hangs up with a loud crack, and fights to swallow. His heart becomes lodged in his throat, beating hummingbird fast as he grapples for rational thought. He's vaguely aware that he's shaking, panicking, falling apart because, because— _because_. He gasps for breath, eyes swimming as the world tilts on its axis and he can no longer distinguish up from down. Distantly, he hears shouting and what he can only describe as self-satisfied laughing.

He's falling, knees smashing painfully into the uneven ground, his own hands clutching desperately at his chest as he struggles to calm himself. But he can't, he _can't_. He's unable to focus, everything's so wrong, and it's—it's _over_. It's over and he can't handle it—can't _think_ , can't make _sense_ of anything.

"Mercy."

_David_.

Hands splay against his cheeks, touch warm and surprisingly tender. "Hey, hey," a voice says. _David says_. "Focus." He tries—tries to focus on liquid brown, tries to take in the strong lines of David's face, but his vision has already begun to gray out. "Tell me what to do," David urges, large hands sliding down to cradle Mercy's head against his chest. "It's okay."

It's _not okay_ , but Mercy attempts to focus on David's deep timbre anyway, slows his heartbeat, and eases up on his too-quick, hyperventilating breaths. He thinks of blinding white, of cold ice, and his own body reacts in kind, hands icing over as he comes back to himself. He breathes evenly, softly, for what seems to be months, bleeding into years, before his ice melts and he pushes away from David.

David's gazing at him with a mixture of concern, helplessness—and, oddly, _guilt_.

Mercy notes dimly that Annie's gone and his phone's on the ground, cracked and probably beyond repair. "I… I'm sorry," he manages, still cotton mouthed. "That … that hasn't happened in… quite some time."

A year, to be exact.

David's quiet and Mercy reasons that he's probably shocked—disgusted, maybe. After all, what kind of grown man has childish panic attacks over what he can't control? Mercy gets to his feet mechanically, wincing at the bending stretch of his now bruised knees. David stands shortly after him, frown set in the grim lines of his mouth. Mercy shifts uncomfortably as he rights his clothing, glancing briefly to David as he attempts to keep his exhausted shoulders from slumping. He hesitates, grimaces, and leans down to pick up his ruined phone. As he pockets it, he turns to walk off without another word.

"Where do you think you're going?" David asks abruptly.

Mercy stills. "To bed," he replies despondently.

"Buzz isn't home. He's with Spencer."

Pause. Then, quietly, "I know."

David makes a soft, frustrated noised. "You shouldn't…," he trails off. "You're not staying here by yourself," he tacks on decisively.

"Oh?" Mercy responds caustically, though his heart isn't in it.

"You just had a panic attack," David states, as if Mercy doesn't know what he's just experienced. What he's experienced time and time again, before.

Mercy winces, the response involuntary. "I'm aware."

"Just—Just come with me, okay?" David almost sounds like he's pleading, but Mercy knows better.

He looks at David, worn and brow beaten, thoughts of Cerberus skirting around the fringes of his mind and he … he doesn't _want_ to be alone. He doesn't _want_ to go back to his cold and impersonal dorm room where he'll be lost to his thoughts.

Still, he hesitates.

There's something between David and he—something undefined and fragile. He doesn't understand David and he's not so sure David understands him either. But isn't that the way these things usually work? Two people, who don't know a damn thing about one another, but strive to, despite everything trying to tear them apart?

"Alright," Mercy relents, uncertain.

"Come on, my car's this way," David says, reclaiming Mercy's hand in his, their fingers threading together with unfamiliar ease. It's a quiet, simple gesture, but one that Mercy needs nonetheless. It occurs to Mercy, belatedly, that friends don't hold hands. He looks down at their entangled fingers and silently decides to let this one slip by.

They don't speak as they walk to David's car—a nice, sporty black model—and the silence stretches on once they're both safely inside the cab. It's not an uncomfortable silence; quite the opposite. It's calming, which disconcerts Mercy for reasons currently beyond his comprehension.

The streets David takes are unfamiliar but he doesn't drive recklessly like Mercy assumed he would. When he catches Mercy staring, he grins lopsidedly, cheeks dimpling as his eyes crease, accentuating his startlingly kind gaze. This is the David Mercy knew before his explosive outburst, callous words, and cruel gazes. Mercy thinks how unfair it is that he wants _this_ David with such distressing fierceness. David isn't perfect, that much has been made abundantly clear, but…

That isn't want Mercy wants; someone perfect, someone without flaws.

He swallows, thinking absently of his own shortcomings. His own cowardice.

He thinks of his father, Richard Doyle, a man willing doing anything to gain more power, more money, more fear; a man in possession of a last name that strikes fear and anger into the hearts of the majority of Amberlin. A cold, heartless man. Funnily enough, Mercy can't recall the last time he saw his father in the flesh.

Dominik had been right. It _is_ odd.

That brings his thoughts jarringly to Cerberus and heart sinks. For all of his father's many cruelties, he always left Mercy alone. He never once harmed him. Not physically, anyhow. Cerberus, on the other hand, with his ability to alter memories, always made a game of messing with Mercy's mind. He would make him believe things not true, take away thoughts, memories that made him happy. It was all just some cruel, messed up game to him.

It inspired panic in Mercy, screwed him up inside and left him half-complete—a ruined and broken toy for a man without care.

If Mercy were inclined to hate, he would surly _hate_ Cerberus.

Yet, there remains a part of him—tiny though it may be—that longs for the kinship of brotherhood; for a brother who would protect him without thought, sacrifice for him, and love him with the unconditional finality only a family member can ever hope to achieve.

The reality of it is that this fantasy isn't one his brother can ever fulfill.

That thought stirs a sudden, crippling sadness. "I think if my brother were to die," Mercy says suddenly, cutting into the comfortable silence of the cab, "I would merely feel relieved." He laughs harshly. "That's pretty awful, huh?" It's a raw admission and hell, he doesn't know why he's chosen David to spill it to.

Or, perhaps he's just sick of holding it all inside.

"Cerberus is the awful one," David says, tone leaving no room for argument. "And you wouldn't be the only one who felt relieved." His hands tighten around the steering wheel.

Ah, his sister.

Mercy frowns. "I'm sorry … about Cecilia."

Cecilia, who, two years ago, had been killed so cruelly by his brother without rhyme or reason. Though it still can't be proved conclusively, Mercy doesn't for a second doubt the witnesses.

"Me too," David rasps softly in reply.

Mercy peers at David and recognizes the remnants of sorrow lingering in his eyes for what it is: grief.

"She would have liked you," David admits after a while, half-smiling.

"Doubtful."

David chuckles hoarsely. "Not so. She was frustratingly difficult." He spares Mercy a fond, fleeting look. "Kind of like you."

Mercy finds himself smiling at that. "Perhaps that had more to do with you, than us."

David laughs outright. "Yeah, maybe."

Thoughts of his mother flutter about without his permission. She had been a beautiful woman, tall, regal looking with long, flowing midnight hair and eyes that matched. She had died suspiciously in her sleep, but Mercy had been too young—only six—to give her death much thought. Truth be told, he hadn't thought of her in years.

He remembers her only as the cold corpse with a single red rose clutched in her hand; a beautiful angel of death, forever lost to an eternal slumber.

Muriel Doyle, his father's first and only bride.

It's a pity he feels no longing for the mother he was never allowed.

"Well, here we are," David says, drawing Mercy from his morbid thoughts. "Home sweet home."

Home sweet home is a relatively small house with a short driveway and messed up blinds. "It's quaint."

David snorts. "That's one way of putting it." He unlocks the doors and both Mercy and he pile out. As Mercy rounds the front of the car, David scowls at him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Quite sure," he assures him. "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be."

David's goofy, half-grin returns.

As soon as David slides his key into the lock and the door creaks open, Mercy's assaulted by the smell of cooking food and terribly off-key singing.

"David—you fuckwit, where you been?" And, ah, that would be Spencer walking into the hallway, clad in a black apron that reads _I rub my meat for 2 minutes_ in large, loopy font, coupled with faded jeans.

David hangs his keys on the key ring as he answers, "Dominik blackmailed me into having coffee with him, then bailed."

"Sounds like Dominik," Spencer agrees. "He's always been an annoying bastard."

"Say how you really feel, now," David replies lightheartedly.

Mercy knows exactly when Spencer notices him, as his lightly annoyed expression goes to one of unflinching hatred. "What the fuck," he growls without preamble, spatula pointed accusingly at Mercy. "You brought _him_ to our fucking house?"

"Yeah," David drags out, challenge in his next words. "Got a problem with it?"

"You bet I got a fucking problem with it," Spencer sneers, bare feet smacking against the tile as he takes a threatening step forward.

"Oh get off it, Spencer. You're making an ass out of yourself," David says, clearly annoyed. "I never complain about Buzz being here all the damn time."

"Leave Buzz out of this," Spencer snarls, though he doesn't look very intimidating standing there in his laughable apron. "Besides, weren't you the one that was vowing to make this little twerp's life hell? Wasn't it you _who_ was threatening to light his whole family on fire or do you suffer from a selective memory?"

David pales. " _Shit_ , Spencer—that was," he glances worriedly at Mercy. "I was angry. You know damn well I didn't mean that."

"Light my whole family on fire?" Mercy echoes candidly.

The guilt that flushes David's cheeks is somewhat gratifying. "Mercy—"

"It's okay," he says, shrugging. "I'd let them burn, for all intents and purposes."

The shock that shows on David and Spencer's face is almost humorous.

Spencer squints at Mercy. "You're pretty fucked up, you know that?"

Mercy rolls his eyes. "Duly noted."

Bentley, ever the king of bad timing, picks then to come stumbling into the room. "Hey Spencer where"—he spots Mercy—"Mercy?"

"Bentley," Mercy greets, amused.

Bentley grins widely at him. "What, uh, what are you doing here?"

"Yeah," Spencer cuts in, "what _are_ you doing here?"

"He's my guest," David interjects stiffly.

"Whatever," Spencer grumbles, turning to push Bentley forward, roughly prompting him to start back towards where he bounded in from.

For the first time, Mercy notices that the intricate, swirling, and brightly colored dragon tattoos that usually spiral down Spencer's arms have magically disappeared. "Your tattoos," Mercy says before Spencer and Bentley can make their exit, "They're gone."

"What?" Spencer responds crabbily.

"Oh," David says. "I guess you wouldn't know about Topaz and Sapphire."

That only serves to further confuse Mercy. "Topaz and Sapphire?"

"His ink dragons," David clarifies as if that somehow _actually_ makes any sense.

"Ink dragons," Mercy repeats, dubious.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Spencer grumbles. He whistles loudly and glowers down the back hallway.

Mercy hears them before he sees them, the loud beating of wings against air being his first clue. In a flurry of movement and color, a large two-headed—for a lack of a better word—dragon lands gracefully on Bentley's shoulder. The creature is a vivid array of colors, scales shining with the full spectrum of the rainbow. Its two heads connect to separate, slender necks that curve down to a single body sporting four proportionate legs and a spiked tail that looks like it could do some real damage. Spencer points uninterestedly at the left head, a brilliant shade of blue. "Sapphire," he says as said head nips playfully at his fingertips. He flicks her away irritably and gestures to the other, gold colored head that's rubbing up against Bentley's cheek like an affectionate cat. "Topaz."

Mercy stares, mouth parting slightly in subdued wonder.

David, noticing Mercy's confusion, explains, "Spencer's older brother has the ability to thread life into his tattoos. They can become living creatures. As long as Spencer's alive, so are Sapphire and Topaz."

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer grunts, annoyed. "Now that _that's_ out of the way, my burgers are burning." He stomps dramatically from the room, leaving behind Sapphire, Topaz, and Bentley.

Topaz makes a low purring noise and curls into Bentley, settling in the crook of his neck.

"I think it likes you," Mercy observes.

Bentley blushes. "Yeah, uh, well, it's only because I feed her extra treats."

A door slams in the distance.

"Um, I should probably, uh, go help Spencer with dinner," he peers curiously at Mercy. "Are you staying?"

"Yes, I am."

"Awesome! Um, nice to see you David," he says before scurrying off after Spencer—Sapphire and Topaz still perched on his shoulder.

"So," David says, turning to look at Mercy with a shy, abashed expression, "Hungry?"

* * *

Turns out, for all that Spencer fails at socially, he's a phenomenal cook. Mercy isn't one to eat red meat with frequency, but this is the single most delicious burger he's ever bitten into. He swallows, grudgingly awed. "Well, at least you have one redeeming quality," he tells Spencer dryly, inspiring a fit of hacking giggles in Bentley and a shit-eating grin in David.

Spencer glowers. "Shut the fuck up and eat your damn burger."

Mercy smiles into his next bite. He watches Spencer surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, quietly stunned by how gently he treats Bentley when there's no audience. While Bentley's sitting beside him on the couch—Sapphire and Topaz curled up on his lap—Spencer's leaned up against the arm rest, hand carding distractedly through Bentley's unruly curls, the motion tender and affectionate.

Not together, right.

Bentley's a fool if he thinks Spencer holds anything other than fondness for him.

He switches his attention to David, only to find he's already looking his way. "Thank you," Mercy says plainly.

David laughs softly. "For what?"

Mercy shrugs, not quite sure how to put his appreciation into words.

David glances at Spencer and Bentley and, upon seeing they're preoccupied, says lowly, "I thought I ruined it, you know."

Mercy raises an eyebrow. "Ruined it?"

"Being able to be … friends with you," David admits, with difficulty. "I don't… I'm not perfect, for sure, but how I reacted… there's no excuse. And yet you," he sighs, gazing at Mercy with raw affection. "You forgave me anyway. If anyone should be saying thank you, it should be me."

"Really, David?" Spencer cuts in abruptly. "Your girl is showing."

David glares. "Shut up, Spencer."

Spencer laughs obnoxiously. "Come on Buzz, let's leave David alone to bare his girly soul."

Bentley blinks, smiles apologetically, and follows Spencer from the room.

"He's charming," Mercy comments. "Why are you friends with him again?"

"He grows on you," David replies. After a pause, he adds, "Like a parasite."

Mercy's lips quirk up at that, almost but not quite, blooming into a smile. The sun has faded, causing the interior of Spencer and David's house to dim, but the ambiance remains comfortable.

After a while, David says, "It's getting late. You should stay the night." He stands, takes Mercy's now-empty plate out of his lap and trots into the kitchen, where he runs the plates under water and deposits them in the dishwasher. Mercy frowns after him, stands as well, and trails in to the kitchen, leaning his hip up against the immaculate kitchen counter.

"Why?"

David's movements falter. "Why not?" he challenges with a grin. He turns, facing Mercy as mischievousness flashes across his face. He moves forward then, closing the space between them. "You don't want to?" he asks, his tone dropping several octaves, dangerously close to husky.

Mercy means to respond, he does, but his heart's tempo picks up once the feeling in the air shifts, sparking, electrifying him into stillness. Almost as if on cue, David's hand comes up, calloused fingers ghosting along the outline of Mercy's jaw. Mercy's eyes flicker upwards, capturing David's. His eyes have an odd light to them, gentle but not quite smoldering. He looks as if he wants to kiss Mercy.

Mercy isn't inclined to refuse him.

David leans down, the movement halting and hesitant, until his lips are only mere centimeters from Mercy's. He exhales, hot breath wafting across Mercy's lips as David searches his expression for something. He must find it because, without warning, his mouth seizes Mercy's with a firmness that leaves him feeling lightheaded and dizzy. David's hand slides upwards into Mercy's hair as he deepens the kiss, teeth grazing Mercy's lower lip, gently prodding for access. Mercy allows him in, his own tongue skirting along the soft pattern of David's lips.

It's a sweet kiss, slow, tantalizing, and over far too swiftly. David pulls back gradually, their breaths mingling in the meager space between them. He dips his head forward, resting his forehead against Mercy's, a silly little smile stealing away his breath.

Mercy finds himself returning that smile tentatively. "I thought you wanted to be friends," he says, tone light, unexpectedly teasing.

"I thought we already established I'm an idiot," David returns, sweeping down to snag another quick, chaste kiss.

"Yes," Mercy laughs into David's mouth.

"So, will you?" David asks. "Stay the night, I mean."

"Not tonight," Mercy refuses gently. "I … just not tonight."

David pulls back, expression disappointed, but understanding. "Alright, I'll guess I should get you home, then."

Mercy thanks him, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

In the end, David ends up driving both Bentley and he back to the dorm—much to Spencer's irritation. He drops them off behind their dorm, in the small parking lot around back. "See you," David says lightly. "Be sure to get that phone fixed."

Bentley eyes them suspiciously as he gets out of the car.

Instead of kissing him, like he expects, David merely thumps Mercy on the cheek. "Don't go getting into any trouble, okay, kid?"

Mercy rolls his eyes. "I won't." He slips out of the car and watches as David drives off.

As he turns around, Bentley's staring at him with his arms crossed. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Mercy dismisses, starting around the building.

"Uh-huh." Bentley quickens his pace, trotting up besides Mercy with a knowing smile.

Mercy ignores him.

It's completely dark now, the waning moon their only source of light as they round the corner of the dorm, the entrance in their sights. A lone figure stands just outside the door, face obscured by a black hoodie, his stance relaxed, casual. Mercy frowns, feeling unexplainably on edge.

As Bentley and he near the man, he turns, hood falling back off his head in one fell swoop. Mercy halts at once, ice chilling his veins.

Cerberus stares dispassionately at him, his spiked, off-brown hair rumpled, frost colored eyes that mirror Mercy's own devoid of any real emotion. He tilts his head, the light of the moon casting a shadow over the right side of his face. He doesn't smile as he says, "It's been a while, little brother."


	10. Chapter 10

Beside him, Bentley inhales sharply, the weight of Cerberus' words hanging heavily in the night air.

Mercy swallows as fear encompasses him, ripping through him like a serrated knife. "Bentley," he says calmly. "I need you to go back to Spencer's."

"Uh—"

" _Right now_."

Cerberus shifts, withdrawing his hands from his hoodie slowly, almost apathetically. His face remains blank as he regards Bentley, cool blue eyes looking him up and down lethargically. "I'd much rather he stay," he says, speaking softly, tone velvety smooth and not at all threatening. Curious perhaps, but nothing about his tone suggests he means Bentley harm. And that's what's so incredibly terrifying about the candid way in which Cerberus does things, with no real emotion or caring—without _feeling_. As if he could watch the world burn and not feel a damn thing.

Mercy steadies his breathing, clenching his hands into fists the moment they begin to tremble, heartbeat ratcheting up as his gaze darts to Bentley—because he can't, he _can't_ be the reason he gets hurt. His own torment he can stomach but the mere thought of Bentley enduring Cerberus' special brand of cruelty makes Mercy's throat close up, raw and dry—parched by fear.

He _cannot_ allow that to happen.

"I'd rather he not," Mercy manages to say, only just keeping his voice from wavering by sheer force of will.

"Hmm," Cerberus exhales, running long, slender fingers through his unruly dark chocolate locks, gold signet ring catching the moonlight with an ominous glint. "I don't recall asking you what you'd rather." He fixes his eyes on Mercy then, the chilling detachment of his stare sending a creeping shiver down his spine. Just as quick, he looks away, back to sizing up Bentley with bored indifference. His sneakers squeak as he strides forward. "What's your name?" he asks Bentley gently, almost hypnotically.

Bentley stares wide-eyed at Cerberus, a deer caught in headlights.

Cerberus tilts his head to the side, the gesture lazy. "Well?"

"…B-Bentley Ca-Carthridge, uh, s-sir," Bentley stammers, casting his eyes down towards the ground, his face paling as his demeanor stiffens with fright.

Cerberus says nothing for a long moment. "I see." He rolls his shoulders distractedly as he takes another step closer to Bentley. "Don't worry," he assures him smoothly, abruptly, "This won't hurt a bit."

Without warning, his hand snatches out, forefinger and middle finger digging painfully into Bentley's left temple as his thumb presses in against his cheek, ring finger and pinky bent in towards his palm. His eyes flutter close, shuttering as he grimaces in slight discomfort.

Mercy's reaction is immediate. "Cerberus, _no_ ," he objects, voice coming out as little more than a hoarse whisper, words strangled and filled with blatant terror. His feet move without permission, slapping against the cobblestone walkway as he takes off with force, trembling hands icing over with startling swiftness. He feels the sharp, ice-made knife forming in his hand before it's even a coherent thought. With dexterity he didn't know he possessed, Mercy flicks his wrist upwards and presses the blade firmly to Cerberus' jugular. The adrenaline coursing through his veins is the only reason his hand remains steady, though his heart is about ready to beat out of his chest. "Let him go," he demands, words strong and sure—unwavering.

If Cerberus is surprised, he doesn't show it. "Go on," he urges, eyes still tightly shut. "Slit my throat."

His hand falters, grip weakening. Could he do it? Could he really slit his own brother's throat? He swallows thickly, the panic winning out against the adrenaline with crippling fierceness. Cerberus' hand slowly comes up to encircle Mercy's wrist. "If I let go now," he says simply, lids opening to reveal omnipresent irises, "he'll be an invalid. Is that what you want?" He speaks in that tone of his again, curious yet not quite malicious; uncaring.

Mercy allows the ice knife to melt in his palm, all of his fight draining right out of him as if someone uncorked an emotional drain. "Please," he begs, really and truly _begs,_ "Don't hurt him."

Cerberus uses his free hand to gently nudge Mercy out of his way. He doesn't say a word in reply, just closes his eyes once more, allowing silence to blanket the open walkway. After what seems like an entire lifetime, his hand drops from Bentley's head and he takes a single, measured step backward.

Bentley blinks rapidly as if he's been startled awake. The tension in his muscles uncoils as his body is forced to relax. There's puzzlement on his face as he glances at Mercy and, after a moment, he casts his gaze back towards Cerberus—only to stare right through him as if he weren't there. "Ah," he starts, clearly perplexed. "I'm … going to go inside." He settles his gaze on Mercy, weird expression taking root there, "…'Night."

"What did you do to him?" Mercy demands softly, words strained.

"Nothing of consequence," Cerberus says offhand, not bothering to watch as Bentley strides off. Instead, he fixes a disquieting gaze on Mercy. "I'm far more interested in the lovely young woman who was in possession of your phone."

 _Annie_.

Mercy's heart stutters as fear begins to clog his throat.

"It's was awfully disappointing, little brother," Cerberus continues, "That the first phone call I received from you in weeks wasn't, in fact, from you at all." He smiles then, huffing out a little whisper of a laugh. "How very disappointing, indeed."

Silence descends upon them.

Mercy finds himself unable to move, paralyzed by the swirling uncertainty of Cerberus' impending actions. He's always been unpredictable, tricky. What he'll do tonight, Mercy can't be sure.

"Who is she?" Cerberus asks lightly, taking his first intruding step forward.

"No one," Mercy lies, the barbed tendrils of dread winding tightly around his heart.

"Is that so," Cerberus murmurs. He reaches forward slowly, brushing a stray strand of Mercy's charcoal hair from his face, tucking it delicately behind his ear. Cerberus is so close Mercy can feel his warm breath sweeping across his skin like a caress. "You won't mind if I take a peek then, will you?"

Mercy laughs, the sound tearing out of his throat as a frantic, disbelieving whimper. "Why bother asking when you're just going to do it anyway?" He glares at Cerberus, agonizing hatred winning out against fear for one triumphant moment.

Cerberus smiles, and though the expression is soft and gentle it's merely a cruel deception, "Because it's only polite."

"Of course," Mercy sneers. He's since learned that fighting Cerberus only makes it worse in the long run. It's better to give in, not to fight, to be the coward he's always known himself to be. His panic soon subsides, replaced by cold resignation. He'd be ashamed if he had it within himself to care. Cerberus's fingers are clammy as they press in against his skin. Mercy catches his eye and says hollowly, "I _detest_ you."

Cerberus pauses, eyes remaining devoid of any sort of emotion. "I know," he murmurs in reply, the words sounding wrong—vulnerable, almost.

Except…

 _Except_ _Cerberus isn't capable of vulnerability_ , Mercy reminds himself fiercely.

It's then that it starts. The invading tingle is familiar, a painful little stutter as his memories open up, rushing past like a scene from a too-bright, vibrant movie. His memories echo in blurs of convoluted detail, half-formed thoughts and searing impressions. He can feel the thrum of his heart, steady as she goes, matching the march of Cerberus' heart beat for beat.

It's an intimate experience, almost unbearably so.

Each memory wafts in and out coherently; their consistency infrequent, some more impactful than others, raw like live wires, electrifying him with emotions that once encompassed these fleeting moments. Fear. Worry. Dread. Disgust. Annie's terrifying visage as David—that agonizing kiss—Antonio, Antonio, _Antonio_. A man who lives as a woman, gender a non-issue. Laughter—Annie laughing in his face, overly sweet. _I want to meet him. I want to meet him,_ playing on repeat, like some scratched up broken record.

The scene shifts, rippling into the next memory like an aftershock. _Cerberus_ , Annie says, words sweet as she promises him only harm—his phone in her hand, panic unleashing as she laughs in delight. It's all there, laid out for Cerberus in pieces of varying intensity.

 _Antonio Cruz_ , Mercy's mind supplies.

 _Annie_ , it cements.

His body shudders as a seed is sown. It fosters into fruition with false intentions, tethering fabricated connections to what the mind already knows to be reality.

_David thumps him on the cheek. "Don't go getting into any trouble, okay, kid?"_

_Bentley stares at him with his arms crossed. "What was that?"_

_"Nothing," he dismisses._

_"Uh-huh," Bentley replies._

_Step, step, step—nothing, his key sliding into the lock, he's tired, so very tired. "I'm going to bed," he says, tugging at his clothes._

_Bentley nods, falling into the cascade of blankets on his own bed. "… 'Night."_

_Mercy smiles to himself as he undresses. He collapses onto his bed, relaxing into the smooth press of his sheets._

_Sleep lures him in slowly, calling to him as if it were his lover.  
_

Cerberus removes his hand and Mercy gasps, not understanding why he's still lucid. He remembers what has not yet transpired—what he will be forced to recall—and yet he remains aware that it's a deception. His eyes snap open, immediately fixating on Cerberus. "Why?" he asks before he can stop himself.

But the Cerberus standing before him now isn't the one he knows. Gone is his uncaring demeanor. In its place is a man who looks just as broken as Mercy, just as world weary. "Antonio Cruz, huh," he breathes out darkly, countenance unpleasant. He frowns, "It would have been wise of him to heed your warnings," Cerberus says, rounding to regard Mercy with a complicated expression. "Though, perhaps not for the reasons you may think." His words are barely audible as he reaches forward to draw Mercy in against his chest. He winds slender arms around Mercy to hold him closely in a tight embrace. Mercy can't help but feel the desperateness of it, the longing and the lingering melancholy.

It's… disconcerting— _confusing_.

Mercy holds his breath, positive this is merely another one of Cerberus' mind games. After all this time—after everything he's done—his brother has never before been this cruel, never dangled a closeness, a relationship they'll never have in front of him. How _dare_ he give him this—this saccharinity, this brotherly kindness? "Why are you doing this?" Mercy questions quietly into the cold fabric of Cerberus' hoodie.

There's a sudden, light pressure on Mercy's forehead and he realizes belatedly that Cerberus has pushed his hair aside to lay a kiss there, butterfly soft. "I'll fix this," he promises into Mercy's hair. "It's impossible to tell you everything. Now isn't the right time." Cerberus pulls away, desolate frown marring his pale complexion. "I am sorry," he says, downright misery spelled out across his face, "But for now, you have to forget."

Mercy's brows crease, none of this makes _any damn sense_ —

* * *

Mercy wakes with a start, skin covered in a thick sheen of sweat, the hair on his arms raised and surrounded by gooseflesh. He frowns, tousles his hair, and blinks sleepily over at Bentley, who's still snoozing. _Weird_ , he thinks, recalling the night before with a sense of detachment. Something doesn't settle right in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it. He reaches blindly for his phone before he remembers sourly that it's broken. A quick glance at his digital clock sends a string of curses slinging from his mouth.

He's _late_.

Mercy scrambles out of bed, dresses hastily in dirty clothes, grabs his backpack, and books it out of his dorm. His pace is quick, borderline running, as he makes his way across campus, dodging many of his bleary eyed peers. He just barely makes Langley's lecture as he falls into his chair, awash with relief, his breaths coming out in heaving puffs.

"What's the rush, little Doyle?"

With a startled jolt, Mercy immediately glares to his right, noticing too late for it to matter that Annie—Antonio, today, it would seem—is seated next to him, hair braided decoratively and pulled back into a stylish bun. He's wearing a dark blue collared button down that matches his black jeans. "Annie," he says tightly, body tensing up—how could he have forgotten they shared a class?

Antonio tuts. "Call me Antonio," he says, smiling slyly. "I'm taking a break from _Annie_. Being a woman all the time is so dreadfully uninteresting." He leans in, hand curled up against his face to keep his head upright. "Besides, we wouldn't want you to have another… freak out, now would we?" He laughs, deep timbre no more pleasant than his usual soprano.

Mercy steels his features and turns away from Antonio without uttering a word. He hears him laugh lightly beside him, but thankfully Langley starts the lecture.

Langley is a tall, stately man that always wears suits far too extravagant for a freshman history course. Still, he's interesting and, despite his aversion to Mercy, it's a class that he enjoys quite thoroughly. "Alright," Langley says, "I hope you all did the reading this weekend because there's a pop quiz over the implementation of the Amberlin Supers Database or, ASD, if you'd rather. Additionally, you'll be quizzed over the six representatives that currently make up the Board of Supers. Any questions?" He looks around, nods, and then proceeds to hand out the quizzes. "Okay then. You have ten minutes."

The quiz is a welcome distraction, something familiar on which he can focus his attention. He breezes through it with ease, listing the dates and six representatives without difficulty. As he scrawls Eric Holloway's name, he smiles faintly, thoughts going instantly to David. As he finishes, he sets his pencil down beside him, their shared kiss still fresh in his mind.

He shifts, restless as he attempts to banish those inappropriate thoughts from the forefront of his mind.

The rest of the lecture passes without incident and the moment Langley dismisses them, Mercy's out of his seat in a flash. He steps deftly into the throng of escaping students, weaving through them with the intention of ditching Antonio before he can sink his claws in him. He steps out of the crowd and swings right, making a beeline for the building's back exit. He's almost made it when a strong hand wraps around his arm and jerks him into an adjoining hallway.

Mercy twists his body, struggling to break free as he hisses, "Antonio, unhand me this insta—"

As he swings around, hand balled tightly in a fist, it's David who blocks his assault, eyes wide. "Easy there, tiger," he says lightly, seeming bemused and only slightly concerned.

"David?" Mercy exhales, simultaneously relieved and annoyed.

"The one and only. Unless you were expecting someone else? If that's the case, so sorry to disappoint," he answers cheekily, grinning. "Who's Antonio?"

"Is this going to become a thing?" Mercy deflects. "Accosting me in dark, abandoned hallways?"

David chuckles, eyes darkening suggestively. "Do you want it to be?"

Mercy shoots David an impatient glower. "What are you doing here?"

"What? Am I not allowed to wait for you after your class has ended?" he asks, though his tone suggests only amusement.

"I've no hold over your life decisions," Mercy tells him tartly. "Do what you want."

"You're so prickly today," David notes. "What's eating at you?"

Mercy sighs, giving in just a bit. "Nothing," he says. At David's ensuing frown, he reluctantly adds, "I overslept."

"Well," David says, "That explains why you're wearing what you wore yesterday."

Mercy looks down at his attire and scowls as his cheeks burn unwillingly. "I was in a rush," he retorts hotly.

David snickers. "I can see that."

Aggravated, Mercy shakes free of David's hold and turns calmly to stalk off. "Hey, hey," David calls after him, regaining his hold on Mercy and pulling him back towards him, laughing exuberantly. "None of that."

Mercy opens his mouth to protest but as he does so, David sweeps down to claim his lips in his. The kiss is sloppy, awkward in its execution as David chuckles into his mouth, breath hot and tasting distinctly of overly sweet coffee. Mercy pushes him away half-heartedly, asking softly, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I thought that would be rather obvious," David answers, hand coming to rest in the curve of Mercy's neck, the press of his fingers hot, affectionate.

Mercy bounces on his feet nervously. "Don't, ah," he sighs, frowning apprehensively, "Don't do that so … suddenly. I might … come to the wrong conclusion." He might think, perhaps, David wants to be more than just a passing fling. He feels suddenly exposed, as if he's said too much. He carefully hardens his expression, slotting into place his unreadable mask of indifference.

"Wrong conclusion," David echoes, appearing properly confused. "What do you mean?"

"I am not an idiot, David," Mercy begins, "I don't expect anything from you." He pauses, voice wavering as he continues, "Especially your affections."

David's looks as if someone has slapped him. His face pinches, tightening with a sort of subdued rage Mercy is unacquainted with. "What the hell…," he trails off, hand sliding from Mercy's neck. "What do you mean you're not an idiot? Mercy, that is the most _idiotic_ thing I've ever heard." He scowls. "You're not going to make this easy on me, are you?"

Mercy continues to keep his expression under control, though David's words make him falter.

David reaches forward to grip Mercy's chin, his thumb brushing gingerly across Mercy's wet lower lip. "Is it really that hard to believe I might genuinely like you?"

Mercy leans into David's touch involuntarily. "What is there to like?" he asks candidly. "You don't know anything about me."

"But I _want_ to," David persists. "Isn't that enough?"

"I don't know," Mercy answers honestly, tone hesitant as he murmurs, "I want it to be."

David laughs softly, "So do I."

And then he's kissing him again, the motion sweltering and desperately needy. David's hands fist into Mercy's hair, fingers curling into his lengthy waves, kiss becoming so much more. Mercy inhales David, allows his tongue to brush against his, all moist heat and harshly exhaled breaths. He isn't startled in the lease when David nudges him backwards, cadging him up against the hallway wall, leg slipping in between his own. The kiss steadily becomes rougher with the addition of slick teeth and playfully bitten at lips. It's a bruising experience—push and pull, give and take. It leaves him breathless when David finally retreats, skittering down to worry at the hollow of Mercy's neck. His mouth is aggressive, possessive as his teeth drag slowly across Mercy's flesh, leaving behind a streak of dull, aching skin.

"David," Mercy pants in reproach.

David makes an amicable noise as noses up along Mercy's neck, pausing only once he nears his ear.

"We're in a hallway," Mercy reminds him, all too aware of the way his arousal is straining against the fabric of his pants, eager and throbbing.

David snorts, huff of air brushing past his ear. "Yeah, and?"

Mercy scowls, bringing his hand up to grip at David's too-short hair. "Someone could walk by at any moment."

"That's what makes it fun," David informs him as he starts to nip teasingly at his earlobe.

Mercy arches his neck, exhaling as his eyes flutter close. "Is it?"

David smiles into the underside of Mercy's jaw, peppering kisses there as he travels down to the crest of his chin. "Mmhm," he hums in response, lifting to peck Mercy chastely on the mouth.

Mercy frowns against David and pushes lightly at his chest, just barely separating their bodies. "I'm not that adventurous," he tells him plainly.

"Really now," David husks, snapping Mercy's waistband purposely. "Something else is telling me otherwise," he says meaningfully, flourishing grin as smug as they come.

Mercy grips David's wrist and tugs his hand away from his waistband. "Exhibitionism isn't really my thing," he says blandly.

David laughs loudly. "That's too bad."

Mercy rolls his eyes. "Not that you care, but I have another class to get to."

"Skip," David suggests.

"I will do no such thing."

"No, I don't suppose you would," David muses, stepping back to put even more space between them. "Shit, I was hoping you would. It'd give me an excuse to call into work." He grins stupidly, looking infuriatingly handsome.

"You shouldn't skip work," Mercy admonishes. "It's irresponsible."

"Maybe I'm an irresponsible guy," David replies impishly, odd glint in his eye.

Mercy gives him a _look_.

"Fine, fine," David says, smile devious. "At least promise to have dinner with me tonight?"

"I have to study," Mercy protests.

David threads his fingers with Mercy's and pulls their entwined hands up so that he can place a gentle, lingering kiss on the back of Mercy's hand. "Don't make me beg," he says, trying for seductive and landing somewhere around ridiculously irresistible.

Mercy scowls, wishing that David wasn't so frustratingly charming. "Maybe," he relents. "But I need to buy a new phone, first."

"Oh, yeah," David nods sheepishly, letting their hands swing back down at their sides. His playful expression fades into one of complete seriousness. "You know, you're going to have to explain—what's her name—sometime, right?" Mercy's face must show he wishes to do anything but, because David continues, "You can't keep things from me. Not anymore, okay?"

"It's complicated," Mercy tries as he turns his body away from David.

"Yeah, well, a lot of shit's complicated," he says dully. "You're going to have to think of a better excuse than that."

"It's not an excuse, it's the truth."

"Bullshit."

Mercy glares, irritation gnawing away at him. "Leave it alone, David," he warns coolly.

David, ever as stubborn as Mercy, simply glares right back at him. "Fine," he says. "I'll leave it alone, _for_ _now_."

"Very well," Mercy replies bitingly.

David sighs, squeezes Mercy's hand, and says, "At least let me walk you to your next class?"

Mercy side eyes him dubiously. "You do realize I'm not a girl in need of your chivalry?"

"Oh, I'm aware," David says, looking Mercy up and down appreciatively.

Mercy extracts his hand from David's and pivots on his heel, stalking off without putting a word in edgewise. David trots up beside him, giving a little half-shake of his head as he chuckles under his breath, trailing Mercy out of the building. As they exit, David's phone starts to go off, ringing obnoxiously.

"Shit," David curses, fishing his phone from his pocket. He frowns at the screen. "Mercy hold on," he says, hand snatching out to grasp Mercy's shoulder, effectively stopping him in his tracks. "It's my brother."

"Answer it," Mercy urges. "We can talk later."

David scowls and automatically hits decline, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. "Nah, he can wait."

"Really David," a voice says from behind them, deadpan. "Ignoring your elders? I wasn't aware you'd become so rude."

Both Mercy and David turn, surprised to find none other than Eric Holloway leaned up leisurely against the History Department's outer laying building.


	11. Chapter 11

Eric Holloway's a tall, unconventionally handsome man with dusty, sand colored hair and windswept bangs that curl across his forehead to fold inward behind his left ear. The rest of his hair is drawn back in a haphazard ponytail, stray strands escaping to frame his severe face. He's glowering, countenance serious and abrasively disappointed. Just above his right eye rests a small white scar that cuts into his eyebrow, marring his otherwise attractive exterior. Although his eyes are the same soft brown as David's, no kindness hides there.

At Mercy's side, David merely appears confused. "Eric?" he questions slowly. "What the hell… What are you doing here?"

"What," Eric responds, "I can't visit my baby brother unannounced?"

"It's unlike you," David says, frown creased with suspicion. After considering Eric for several quiet, tense moments, he continues coldly, "Seeing as leading the Board of Supers generally leaves you little time for family."

"Yes, well," Eric says with the wave of his hand. "Let's have dinner, then. I've something to discuss with you."

David's lips quirk downwards, unimpressed. "Sorry, already got plans." He glances sideways at Mercy, face relaxing into a fond almost-smile.

Eric's face darkens considerably. "I'm going to have to insist you cancel them." His gaze shifts to Mercy, whom he inspects with a careful, familiar eye that unsettles him.

"Yeah, that's not going to happen," David says easily, posture stiffening as his hands flex in and out of balled fists.

Eric scowls, clearly agitated. "Who's your frienisd?" he asks, redirecting the conversation with the jerk of his arm.

Mercy frowns at Eric's question, finding it incredibly odd. Eric Holloway should _know_ who he is. After all, _he's_ the one who tasked Bentley with keeping a close eye on him. Of course, they've never met in person, but surely the older Holloway has at least seen a picture of him? Mercy doesn't know if he's playing ignorant, but something doesn't quite sit right about his tone, his forced inflection.

As Mercy continues to try and work through what's nagging at him, David snaps abruptly, "None of your damn business." However, Mercy doesn't miss the way confusion flickers across David's face as he remains standing steadily beside him.

Eric's gaze alters, warping almost undetectably, something akin to amusement swimming in the depths of a stare that doesn't belong to him. That's when it clicks into place for Mercy. His jarring realization sets off thunderous warning bells and everything around him fades to static white noise. Mercy's eyes drop immediately to Eric's attire; he's dressed in a dark blue, collared button down and black jeans that don't fit properly. _Exactly_ what Antonio had been wearing during the entirety of Langley's lecture.

Mercy feels the dread snake up his spine and it sets his hair on edge as he sweeps a panicked gaze up to meet faux Eric's. Before he can manage the coherency to speak up, David's phone begins to go off again. The obnoxious ringtone cements for Mercy the knowledge that it's _Antonio_ who's once again toying with him.

"Shit," David curses, "Who is it now?" As he grapples for his phone, flipping it right side up in his palm, he simply stares down at the flashing screen, confusion etched into the depress and wrinkle of his brows.

Mercy reaches to grasp at David's arm. "That's not your brother," he says very quietly, grip tightening without his consent.

David looks up slowly at the Eric standing before him, no phone in sight. He hits accept and lifts the phone to his ear, asking with absolute calmness, "Eric, where are you right now?" A pause. "Uh-huh," he murmurs, eyes narrowing with murderous intent. "Yeah, I'm going to have to call you back." _Click_. He deftly turns his phone off and stuffs it back into his pocket before he levels a truly frightening glare on Antonio. "Who the hell are you?"

"Aw, is my farce over so soon?" Not-Eric pouts, façade falling eloquently apart as his entire demeanor shifts into one of sanguine amusement. "That's really too bad."

"Annie," Mercy says through gritted teeth, "What are you trying to accomplish?"

Antonio tuts as he smiles crudely with Eric's face, "Now, now, Mercy, I recall asking you to call me Antonio today."

David glances at Mercy, murderous expression slipping for a bare moment. "You _know_ him?"

"It's a long story," Mercy says quickly.

Antonio laughs, Eric's voice lending a deeper timbre, allowing him to sound more sinister than usual. "Quite the short one, really," he informs David, brushing a hand through Eric's longish sun-kissed locks. "Oh, but this isn't the first time we've met." At David's subsequent confusion, Antonio continues, "Mercy hasn't told you? My, my, he really _mustn't_ trust you, then."

"Leave David out of this," Mercy seethes, hand dropping from David's arm. "He has nothing to do with what you want."

Antonio smirks easily. "No?"

"Mercy," David cuts in brashly, "What the hell is going on?" Then, to Antonio: "And what do you _mean_ this isn't the first time we've met?"

"Ah," Antonio chuckles, "That's right. I suppose you wouldn't recognize me while I've adopted your terribly unattractive brother's appearance."

He smiles as his transformation starts, Antonio-as-Eric's face shifting and distorting with gruesome realness. As his face contorts, his bones break, emitting loud snapping noises as Eric's face folds in on itself, rearranging into a more feminine exterior. His blonde hair fades to an inky brown and his similarly colored eyes darken dangerously. With little to no fuss Annie stands before them, body no longer holding Eric's visage. "Recognize me now?" she asks lightly, batting her eyelashes as her lips slip into a knowing smirk.

David stares at her, dumbstruck. "What...," he exhales, looking swiftly to Mercy who's own jaw tightens. "... the hell?"

'Annie' chuckles as she flips her long, winding hair over her shoulder. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she hums, looking far too delighted. "Again," she punctuates.

"Your ability is shape shifting?" David questions aloud, taken slightly aback by his own conclusion.

"Ding, ding, ding!" Annie calls out. "We have a winner!" She saunters towards them then, hips swaying as a catlike smile creeps across on her face. "Now that you recognize me, shall we move this party along?" Without another word, her face shifts again, this time taking on masculine features, morphing into a broader, more manly version of herself. "Antonio Cruz," he says as the last bone cracks into place.

"Antonio," Mercy hisses. "Stop this."

Antonio switches his gaze to Mercy with the roll of his eyes. "And why should I? I've warned you time and time again, Mercy. I want what we... _discussed_. And since you've been so unwilling to deliver, I thought I'd air a bit of your dirty laundry for your little boyfriend here." He smiles with copious amounts of false charm, sugarcoating his cruel intentions in excess. He hums and reaches forward to trace his index finger along the curve of Mercy's jaw. "After all, Holloway isn't the only one good at stealing kisses in dark hallways."

"What," David bites out.

"What," Antonio mocks, pulling fluidly away from Mercy as he steps back several paces. "Did I make the guard dog angry?"

Rage takes David's face by storm. "I'm going to wipe that smug smirk right off your—"

"David," Mercy interrupts with a hard, reprimanding tone.

David rounds on him, fury burning bright in his eyes. "Well, is he just spewing bullshit or do you and he have some kind of thing?"

Mercy's lips thin as he glares at David, heart sinking rapidly while he fights to remain in control of the situation. "Some kind of thing?" he echoes angrily. "That's what you're concerned with?"

"Oooh, a lover's spat," Antonio chimes in gleefully. "How _predictable_."

David points a steady, angry arm at Antonio. "You," he seethes, "shut up."

"Charming," Antonio coos, smirking at Mercy. "No wonder you're so enamored with him."

"I said," David all but growls, hands clenching into fists, "to _shut up_."

Antonio laughs, but doesn't say another word. He mimes zipping his lips close and crosses his arms, cocking his hip to the left as he waits in a bored, relaxed pose.

"And you," David continues, turning to glare with barely repressed aggravation at Mercy. " _You_ are going to explain everything to me _right now_."

"Perhaps I would be more willing to explain," Mercy snaps in reply, "If you weren't barking orders at me as if I'm were some sort of dog."

"Barking orders," David starts, exasperation overtaking his features. "Your _friend_ just shape shifted into my brother, you're damn right I'm barking orders. I deserve answers, Mercy. You've been dancing around this"—he gestures wildly at Antonio— "for too damn long!"

"Right," Mercy grounds out. "Because you've been _so understanding_ in the past. Or do you not remember the stunt you pulled the moment you heard my name?"

"I remember you forgiving me for that," David replies darkly.

"Forgiven, yes," Mercy says tightly. "Forgotten? Hardly."

David makes an irritated little noise as he runs a hand past the buzzed curve of his head, face scrunched up and angry, but not outright hateful. "Mercy, _damn it_ , are you trying to be difficult on purpose?"

Before Mercy can respond with something as equally as biting, Antonio breaks his silence. "Well, as entertaining as _this_ is," he says, voice holding an entertained edge, "I really don't have time to indulge you two in your bickering." That said, Antonio steps forward and yanks Mercy close to whisper harshly in his ear, "Get Cerberus to meet me tonight or I'll have to do something drastic. And _trust me_ when I say you won't like the lengths I'm willing to go to."

Just as swift as Antonio had gripped Mercy and husked in his ear, David rips them apart. He slams Antonio up against the nearest wall, hands digging into his shoulders, murder spelled out across his face. "Touch him again," David punctuates menacingly, "and I'll burn your damn arms off."

Antonio doesn't even flinch. "Kinky," he purrs instead.

David's lips rear back into a disgusted snarl. "What did you say to him," he demands, nails digging into the soft flesh of Antonio's shoulders.

This time, Antonio does wince. He smiles, as if he's discovered some sort of secret and leans in towards David. "None of your damn business," he says, echoing David's words from earlier.

"I'm serious," David says coldly. "Don't come near him again."

"Is someone jealous?" Antonio rumbles, tilting his head coyly. When David doesn't respond right away, he sighs heavily and says with disturbing callousness, "Well, you shouldn't be—I'd never want that disgusting excuse for a Doyle."

Mercy winces despite himself.

"Disgusting?" David repeats, visibly offended by Antonio's insensitive words. He removes his hands from Antonio's shoulders to grip at his shirt, hauling him away from the wall with dangerous intent. "I should light you on fire for propriety's sake."

"David," Mercy says at long last, placing a placating hand on David's shoulder. "Stop this."

David looks sharply at Mercy. "What?"

"He's not worth it," he says tiredly. "Just let it go."

"You want me to—"

"Yes, I do."

David turns back to scowl at Antonio, brows screwed up irately, and he sighs, expression heavily put on. "Whatever," he snaps, releasing Antonio with a hard shove.

Antonio stumbles backwards, lazy smile in place as he chuckles under his breath. "See you later, Mercy," he sing-songs before turning to stride off with slow, lethargic steps.

There's an awkward pause wherein neither David nor Mercy speak.

"We're getting lunch," David says at long last. "Now."

"I have a class to get to," Mercy says quietly, without inflection.

"You think I'm going to let you go to class without an explanation?" David says testily, ire apparent.

"I don't think you're going to _let_ me do anything," Mercy responds hotly. "Let me be very clear, David. I am _not_ someone you can order around. I will explain myself when I see fit and not a single one of your demands is going to change that."

At first David looks as if he's going to argue but then all the rage bleeds right out of him, replaced by an overwhelming amount of guilt. "Shit," he swears. "Shit, you're right." He drags a hand down the front of his face, lips twisted into a conflicted frown. "I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I'm just … understandably confused."

Mercy softens at that, his weariness winning out against his irritation with David. "I know," he says, "but I really do need to get to class."

David sighs. "Fine, I get it." He pauses. "But—dinner, alright?"

Mercy nods. "Alright. I'll answer any … questions you may have, then."

David's mouth twitches into light smile. "Good," he breathes, a complicated array of emotions dancing across his face as he stands there, staring at Mercy. "Come here," he says abruptly, voice tender.

"Why?" Mercy asks, eying him suspiciously.

David huffs out a laugh and drags Mercy in against him. He winds one arm down around Mercy's waist, idly resting his hand there. He uses his other hand to ruffle Mercy's hair affectionately. "Must you question everything?"

"It's the consequence of a healthy mind," Mercy remarks dryly.

David snorts. "Is that so?" He sighs, pulls back, and leans down to brush his lips lightly against Mercy's, chaste and quick. "Dinner, don't forget."

"How could I? You've only repeated yourself a thousand times."

David quirks a brow at that, "A thousand times, really?"

Mercy eyes him with passive irritation, though he notes distantly that his earlier trepidation has faded away completely. "Really," he answers primly. "And a time and place would also be nice."

David laughs, throwing his head back to do so obnoxiously. "Yeah, I suppose it would."

"Well?"

David rests his head on top of Mercy's, throat vibrating as he hums in consideration. "How about Feu et de Glace? Five o'clock?"

"Okay," Mercy agrees, allowing himself a precious few seconds to take in the welcome heat of David's body pressed against his.

David pulls away from him with a rueful little sigh of his own. "Alright, champ, get going," he says, pushing between Mercy's lower back, prodding him forward.

Mercy frowns over his shoulder. "Goodbye, David," he says softly before turning on his heel to amble towards his next class, a sense of dread swirling ominously around his heart.

* * *

Feu et de Glace is a fancy little restaurant nestled in the heart of Aspen. It caters to a wide range of clientele, all the while remaining classy in atmosphere. Mercy feels decidedly out of place in his black dress pants and a simple, button-down shirts that's a particularly flattering shade of olive green. He fusses with his hair as he steps gracefully from his car, locking the doors behind him as he starts up the steps to the restaurant's entrance. As Mercy walks briskly through the doors, he's disarmed by how dark the restaurant is, ambiance that of an intimate setting.

He frowns, eyes flickering to the hostess who's all but gaping at him. He clears his throat. "I'm meeting someone," he tells her indifferently, messing idly with his collar.

The hostess nods dumbly and frantically grabs for two menus.

"Ah, that'd be me," David says, reaching past Mercy's shoulder to snag the two menus from the poor girl's hands. He places a heavy hand on Mercy's shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "This way," he continues easily, steering Mercy away from the hostess' booth.

Mercy scowls as he tilts his head, intent on glaring at David. However, he falters when he takes in what David's wearing. His dressed in a pair of black fitted slacks, coupled brilliantly with a bright red dress shirt complemented by a sharply cut jacket. The lighting catches David's eyes just right and accents the gentleness of his stare.

"This isn't a date," Mercy states touchily as David sets the menus down at a vacant booth far away from the other patrons.

David chuckles as he takes the seat opposite Mercy. "Isn't it though?"

"I've never been here before," Mercy deflects, taking in the soft glow of the low lighted lamps, the velvet reds, and deep blacks of the restaurant's design.

"That doesn't surprise me," David says offhand.

Mercy looks up, unimpressed. "Oh?"

"My Aunt runs the place. She's a tough old bat and not exactly your family's biggest fan."

Mercy snorts noncommittally at that and begins to scan the menu with a disdainful glower. Everything sounds highly pretentious but marginally edible nonetheless. He's just decided on what to eat when a rough feminine voice drawls, "Would you look what the cat dragged in."

Mercy glances up to find an older, middle-aged woman with a truly inspiring cascade of crimson red curls 'hmming' down at him. Her lips match her hair in color and vibrancy, pursed into a thoughtful expression. In the dim lighting, Mercy can't discern the color of her eyes, but they glint with interest nevertheless. She's wearing a loose fitting white shirt and a black apron covered in flour and other cooking mishaps.

"Aunt Porsche," David greets, laughter alight in his tone. "I knew you'd show up eventually."

"Eventually, eh," she says, her surprisingly deep voice dragging out the words with curious longevity. "What are you doing here, punk? And why is _that_ sitting at my table?" She spares Mercy a sideways glare, lips twisting into a disgusted grimace.

 _Ah_. David certainly hadn't been exaggerating when he'd mentioned his aunt wasn't a fan of Mercy's family. It should sting, but Mercy just matches her stare with an equally hard, unimpressed glower of his own.

David frowns at once. "Hey," he says sharply, "he's my guest."

Porsche cocks a brow. "And? My restaurant, hon."

"If you'd prefer we go somewhere else," Mercy interjects smoothly, "I'm sure we can find other accommodations."

"He speaks," Porsche says coolly, pressing her well-manicured hand flat against the table top as she turns to look him straight in the eye. "You're the youngest Doyle, aren't you?"

Mercy holds her gaze steadily. "I am."

"What game do you think you're playing with David? I know he's as dumb as they come, but surely you have better things to do in your spare time than string him along?" She leans back, removes her hand from the table, and takes Mercy's appearance in for the first time. "Though, I'm not above admitting you _are_ his type; Regal and off-limits." She rounds on David, scowling. "Honestly, David. Eric's going to have an aneurism."

David smiles sheepishly, a hint of mischief hiding in the curve of his lips. "Yeah, well."

Porsche scoffs.

"I'm not playing any sort game with David," Mercy speaks up neutrally, unwrapping his napkin clad silverware to set his side of the table appropriately. "He's the one who's persistent."

This time, Porsche snorts. That coaxes a small smile from her. "You're right about that." Porsche smacks David playfully on the back of his head. "You tell your grouchy older brother you don't want to join the Supercorps yet?"

David glares. "I haven't had the opportunity."

Porsche rolls her eyes. "Haven't had the opportunity, right. You're just being a typical brat. Your paintings are good; art suits you more than setting criminals on fire, anyway."

"Whatever," David grumbles, fidgeting awkwardly as he draws his brows down in silent irritation.

Porsche smacks him again. "Don't _whatever_ your elders. Why couldn't you have grown up a proper boy?"

Unable to help himself, Mercy laughs softly, enjoying the playful, familiar way in which David's aunt speaks with him. It sets off an old ache in Mercy's chest, but he ignores it and instead focuses on to the fact that David apparently has a penchant for art.

"Shit, Porsche, just take our orders," David demands, though it comes across more as a put upon plea than a command.

"Watch your mouth," Porsche snips. "And I don't recall agreeing to letting a Doyle eat in my establishment."

"Aunt Porsche," David warns.

Porsche flips her glossy curls over her shoulder with a huff. "Fine," she snaps, viper stare switching to burn venomously through Mercy. "Well, what do you want?"

Annoyed, Mercy rattles off his order, keeping his composure as Porsche glares at him through the entirety of it. After she takes David's, she stalks off with an angry gait.

David heaves a tired sigh. "Shit," he murmurs. "Sorry about her."

Mercy shrugs. "I'm used to it."

"Yeah, well," David grumbles, "you shouldn't have to be."

Mercy shakes it off. "It doesn't matter. We're here for you to interrogate me, remember?"

" _Interrogate?_ " David repeats carefully, sounding far too beaten down for Mercy's comfort. "That's not… I just want you to _talk_ to me, Mercy. Shit, don't you get that? I want to _help_ you and I can't do that if you insist on being tight lipped about things you should really be telling me… or, at the very least, _someone_."

"Just ask your questions," Mercy demands curtly.

"Why are you like this?"

"Like what?"

David's disposition darkens. "You know what."

Mercy exhales, frowns, and then relents, if just the bare amount. "Sorry," he says contritely. "I'm not used to people…," he hesitates, looking off into the open space of the restaurant, "… caring, is all." He glances back at David. "I can't immediately rectify that part of my personality."

"Yeah," David says. "I'm not demanding you do, either. Just, give me an inch, okay?"

Mercy nods hesitantly. "Okay."

That's when Porsche returns with their drinks, sets them down, and then whirls away again. Mercy reaches for his water and takes a drink, easing his parched throat.

"Who's Antonio?" David asks, taking a sip of his own beverage.

"I don't know," Mercy replies truthfully.

"Alright," David says, seeming to accept that. "What does he want?"

Mercy shifts uncomfortably, feeling suddenly hot. He grimaces as he says, "For me to arrange a meeting with between him and Cerberus."

David scowls the moment Mercy mentions Cerberus. "What the hell? Why?"

"Who knows," Mercy replies tiredly. "Perhaps he's a groupie, maybe he's twisted inside and wants an in into the criminal underground? There are lots of motivations for wanting to speak with my brother," Mercy sighs. "And none of them are good."

"Are you going to do it?"

"Do what?" Mercy asks, setting his glass down warily.

"Arrange the meeting." David says it coolly, but Mercy feels how loaded those words really are.

"No," Mercy says. "No matter what Antonio might think, nothing good will come from meeting Cerberus."

David studies Mercy, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table top.

"Is that all?" Mercy queries neutrally.

"No," David says. "What'd he whisper in your ear?"

"Nothing," Mercy lies.

"Don't do that. Don't start lying to me, not now."

Mercy glances up, catches David's gaze and swallows thickly. The raw emotion that reflects in David's eyes is almost too much. "It's really nothing," he says quietly, frowning.

"Did he threaten you?"

"No, David, he didn't," Mercy snaps. "Leave it alone, okay? I've got it handled."

Whatever David might have said is cut off by a server Mercy doesn't recognize setting their dishes down before them. "Enjoy," the server says cordially before scurrying away to, no doubt, go gossip with the other waitstaff.

"Mercy," David starts.

"That's enough questions for tonight, David," Mercy says tightly. "Let's just enjoy our food."

David doesn't look pleased, but he relents anyway. "Fine. But I get to pay."

"Very well," Mercy returns.

The rest of dinner passes tensely, David and Mercy only exchanging the occasional pleasantries as they polish off their food. Soon, David pays the bill and they exit the restaurant, silence stretching on between them painfully. Mercy hates it. It's his fault, he supposes. David may be imposing, but his intentions are mostly harmless. Mercy sighs, glancing at the taller man as they come to a stop in front of his car. David looks a bit disappointed and that makes Mercy feel absolutely wretched.

He scowls and opens his mouth to speak, but it's David who beats him to it, "You know, when you scowl at me like that it makes me want to kiss you."

And just like that, the tense atmosphere evaporates, replaced by a warm simmering in Mercy's gut. "Well," Mercy says lowly, meeting David's gaze surely, "perhaps you should stop talking about it and actually do it, then."

David laughs openly and leans down to close the space between them. The kiss is different from the others—more real, somehow. Mercy feels the electrocuting shock of warm skin on skin down to his toes. He groans into David's hot mouth, relishing the way his tongue moves against his. And, as David pulls way, Mercy finds he wants to yank him back down towards him to take _more_ , feel _more_ —but, he refrains.

"See you," David whispers, tracing his fingers down the side of Mercy's cheek fondly. "Call me once you get your phone fixed, okay?"

"Okay," Mercy exhales, breathless.

With a parting peck, David turns to go and Mercy watches him walk away, chest light and funny. He wishes he were more open, that he could give David what he so obviously needs—someone who would allow themselves to be cared for.

Mercy isn't quite sure can be that person, nor is he sure he deserves it.

Still, perhaps…

Mercy shakes his head and turns around to unlock his car. As he fumbles with his keys, he hears the familiar crunch of feet against gravel. "David?" he asks as he shifts to glance over his shoulder.

"Hmm," Antonio purrs from behind him, "Not quite."

There's a sickening crack, and then nothing.


End file.
